Why glamorize a shooting star
Stealing swiftly through the darkened night,
Fleet and silent as a craven thief
Streaking so to cheat the dawning light?
Flashing thunder booms its flaunted pride
To emphasize with aplomb and flair
The bolt harbors no timidity of the star,
Yet neither leaves sign of ever passing there.
rlkilgore
Ron | 
death, eulogy, immortality, personal poetry, Poems, poetry about age | 
February 1, 2009 @ 10:30 pm| 
No Comments »This was written for a friend who recently passed away. I was able to visit him about three weeks before he died.
Eons stretching beyond belief
Now mean nothing but what we see,
With none more precious than this day
To him, knowing so few remained,
Poised at the edge of what’s to be.
A light-hearted spirit true to his nature,
Unaffected as one might assume
In his grievous condition, relieved
Me the task of feigned good cheer,
His buoyancy dispelling my dreaded gloom.
Instead we talked as a normal day
Of sports, of kids and elections, wise
In combination over one hundred years,
With catchall solutions uncontested
By those not there to see our eyes.
But far, far from a normal day
We tacitly knew – small jokes brought
Smiles but no belly laugh,
Mirth without twinkle and we paused,
Looking away, each to his thought.
Ensnared in a web of no one’s making,
Spun by blood cells out of control,
He bravely proclaimed his satisfaction
And readiness, but I thought better –
Valiant warrior, gentle soul.
I said I would see him in the Spring,
He hugged me with no uttered reply.
We knew only I would see the Spring
So I turned to go to my car,
Turned to hide my moistened eye.
rlkilgore
Dreamy river, which way you flow concealed,
Indiscernible with the stillness of the air,
And ripples chased by the lightest breath of breeze
Belie your intent. Only below, beneath
Your quiet surface, is your true course revealed.
Far away, on a distant mountain crest
Or sage covered prairie, your birthplace where
A single drop of rain finds its destiny,
A drip, a puddle, a trickle, a stream exploring
Each hollow and crevice, seeking unattainable rest.
Disdaining decorous shape, your surging swell
Grows, rising, strengthening, rushing, supplements
Of each gully and ravine quickening
The current to marauding pitch, undeniable,
Unyielding, nimbly accommodating each travail.
Your torrent plummets in cascades where boulders impede
Orderly passage, here quickly, there slowly, each spilllway
And eddy swirling and gushing in anguished impatience,
Single-mindedly driven, plunging in headlong
Pursuit to satisfy an ocean’s insatiable need.
Dreamy river, your tumultuous race to the sea
Now adjourned, your waters, deep and settled, have earned
This peace. Rest by my shore and warm your body.
The glistening sheen of your placid surface sparkles
Where your seminal raindrop smiles – and winks at me.
rlkilgore
They say grass is greener
On the other side,
But that can’t be, you see.
Cause while I’m thinking that woman’s fine,
Her husband’s over there looking at mine.
They say never look
A gift horse in the mouth.
But that can’t be, you see.
Though her dad gave her away, I still
Think her mother’s not part of the deal.
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
Love’s lofty ambition
And the measure of Heaven,
More sought than gold,
Though through golden means,
This wisp, Happiness -
Disguised to be
The siren’s caress.
No beckoning served
That demands a kiss,
Yet sweetly found
When love’s requited,
Elusive Happiness -
Pursued beyond
What we possess.
rlkilgore
Growing up in Texas. I’m on the right and my amigo is now mayor of Rockport, Texas.
As far back as history records
there seems to be,
Even with skeptics,
A universal craving for life
To continue after death.
Religions are a means
Of organizing the afterlife
Into a form the mind
Is able to manage.
But, is the notion
of life prior to birth,
Which human senses lack
The capacity to recall,
Any greater reach?
Perhaps we are a cosmic existence
Of which life on earth
Is an interlude,
A sojourn, a vacation -
For some a pleasant week
At the beach and for others
A nightmare
Where all the flights get cancelled.
rlkilgore
My youth budded in a small town where I came
To know the world, at least the world I saw.
In school I studied math and state capitals
But my core came from the people
Where words like wetback and nigger
Came as naturally out of the mouth as Mom
And Dad with no thought of discrimination.
I wrapped my arms around that world and held
On because it was what I had, it was mine.
That time is long since past and now I learn
From a larger world. My thoughts are about
Individuals and groups, not races.
However, some races have segments
More worthy of my contempt than others.
When this is mentioned the cry
Of racism is loud and shrill.
Decisions represent bias and discrimination -
From the person we marry to the route
We select to go to work each morning.
The self-righteous will say all are equal
And stand on this platform as pure nonracists.
But we are not all equal. Oriental children
Come to America and in five years not only
Learn the language but win the spelling bees.
It is not an accident the fastest runners are black.
Those who attempt to suppress the realities of the world
Do a disservice of which I will not be a part.
So I am called a racist.
rlkilgore
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
My son-in-law bought a limo so he and my daughter could go on trips with the kids and roll up the window between the front and back. They recently took so many people on a trip to Florida that they could not get all the luggage in it.
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
Where is the time that now has passed
That draws each heartbeat from my chest,
Each breath as flame deserts the fire,
Yet still insists to leave behind
Intruding thoughts against desire?
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
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