Kingsley Station

Original Poetry | 11/25/2003 | January24th

[January24th]

This is a thread for readers and writers of poetry. You are welcome to join in this quiet room, but please respect a few rules that will assure that this thread is easy to read, loads quickly, and maintains the confidence of the poets and readers.

1. Only original poetry, please. All poems are the property of the posting poet. Please do not copy or reproduce in another area.

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That's it. Now, get busy and write!

[Camachee]

constrained
by custom
i left
my mark

a black cat
circling
a curious
rose

dew bound
and restrained
in the silence
of sunrise

[Kay Syrah]

Cat territorial
imperitives remark
full voice
dark calling
answers not required
dawn's musty
remembrance
dew leaves lightly
in the sun called
heat of the day
a cat passed
this way.

[Kay Syrah]

Ghost ships
passing with sails
furled by skeleton crews
something is missing
more than flesh on bone
canvas on mast,
peace isn't a concept
for the keel hauled
and the persitance
of sailing without
direction becomes
the reason for fear.

[Soaring Feather]

In the shaded pines
with moonlight flowing down
on the cobblestones
I the dancer once in mourning
loved you with soft eyes
and found a horizon in pictures
of olive groves.
The nightmares ended.

bentfeather
01/15/04

[Kay Syrah]

Every half light
calls a memory
to the shade
of trees swaying
in the winded
movement of here
and then there,
Night pushes
the dark impulse
of breathless desire
in the fake softness
of moonlight
crystal shattered
in the leaf breaks.

[January24th]

loved you with soft eyes,
and found a horizon in pictures
of olive groves.

Very lovely, bf!

[January24th]

Trash Talk

the cruel
un-requite
of being
sadly expendable
disposable
hammers my heart
into lifeless
submission

i left all
to follow you
to nowhere
and i don't
know where
i just keep
hoping not to care
too much

the anesthetic,
repeated blows
of reason
and reasons
is having the
desired effect
of numbing my soul

i am
disposable
and you're not
through with me yet
all i can do is
wait for
the inevitable
toss

[Camachee]

i'd like
to order
a perfect
pizza
but pepperoni
is so
out of style

[Camachee]

irving wallace
meant
no malice

[Soaring Feather]

You've honoured our day in my heart
Let love treasure those moments for
to be away makes
life's hidden pleasure open
to new dreamings
and desiring you a new end...

bentfeather ©
01/18/04

[Camachee]

a naked woman
danced
lilac
and lovely
lingering
on the periphery
of consequences

[Camachee]

you
weren't blue
when we met
adept
at burning barges
and making charges
aloof
to the changes
in atmosphere

[Camachee]

she wrote
from houston
seldom alone
but celebrating
sufficating

[January24th]

Yes,
I think
on certain days
I would like
flying in a balloon
on days when I don't give a damn
where I go
or where I land
abandon myself to the wind,
like a hopeful seed
from some wistful flower

i'd plant myself
near new vistas
new neighbors
and grow naturally
to be as beautiful
as all the dreams
held deep
inside this
husk of humiliation

my roots would sigh
in the rich loam
of life,
wriggling with joy
like a child's toes will
in the tides and sands
of summer beaches.
my chin would
point impudently
at the sun
my leafy arms
would gather in
the day
drinking in dews and desires
as if life depended on them

yes,
on certain days
dangerous, delightful breezes
call me upward
tugging at my tatters
until i just
have to
let go...

[Kay Syrah]

yes,
on certain days
dangerous, delightful breezes
call me upward
tugging at my tatters
until i just
have to
let go...

just lovely.

The density of doubt
tethers and restraints
holding the spirit
to a straining
earth that neither wants
nor celebrates
what it has won
for sadness sake.

Rising into the loft
of wind and sky
still spirited
flying with the cry,
more fire.

[Camachee]

how should
i trace
the advance
advantage
adventure
of salt spring
exhiliration
except
in the acceptance
of a nile perch
and the impression
left of shadow
on sand

[Camachee]

sometimes
the warmth
of a white door
is secured
by golden locks
and intimate
looks

sometimes...

[Camachee]

let's apologize
to story tellers
dwellers
of verbs
and romance
rejecting
verisimiltude
for the precaution
of the often
reiterated
conumbrum
of a risk
of a risk
stuttering
over semantics
and the data
of statical
remorse

[Camachee]

what hue
of love
do you
demand
beyond
the lilac
of my
silence

[Soaring Feather]

what hue
of love
do you
demand
beyond
the lilac
of my
silence
Thank You Camachee, it's lovely.

[Camachee]

i drink
to be
contrary
to a dry
alternative

[Camachee]

she slept
wept
dreaming amidst
swirling fogs
gray dawn blue
tinted red
by sunrise
of pyramids
spun by spiders
but supported
by balloons

[Camachee]

a white
persian cat
persuaded me
to castle
my king
and advance
on black

[Kay Syrah]

Please release me.

Protocol defends
the status configuration
of the well bred
and the presentation
of the proper obediences
with the angle of the bent knee
and the tilt of the chin
signifying certainty
of pertinence
Raleigh's flourish defined
the essence of the beau geste
and Elizabeth remembered him
in the tower, no doubt
bunny dipping has
a long and honourable
pedigree, poetry
is an orphan.

[Kay Syrah]

All reeds begin their song
in the rush of dark equations

Desire empties thought of substance
stalking the empirical with the lyrical

Ecstatic iterations are more or less
regardless of the aftermath

Now gifted with mystic certainty
progressions chart the disposessed.

[Camachee]

you haunted
hallways
in rare-book stores
stalking
the pornography
of burton
the plaintiveness
of byron
and the endless
preamble
of blake
for my sake

what did
you learn
besides
yearning

[January24th]

what did
you learn
besides
yearning

Just damn! Just lovely!

[Camachee]

concentric
circles
ripple
the reality
of lily pads
but who
threw
the stone

[Camachee]

art
is
untitled

confinement
comes
later

[Kay Syrah]

eight all around


Poetic obscurantism
hidden in the quick getaway
propulsion of swimming backward
under dark screened essential fog.


seeking safety in coral chinks
masters of chiaroscuro
but served as a delicacy
ultimately in one's own ink.

[Kay Syrah]

eight all around


Poetic obscurantism
hidden in the quick getaway
propulsion of swimming backward
under dark screened essential fog.


seeking safety in coral chinks
masters of chiaroscuro
but served as a delicacy
ultimately in one's own ink.

[Kay Syrah]

oh fun.
two for one,
life gets better
when clicking fingers
remember once not twice

[Kay Syrah]

Its a leaf
its a small
its a little,
its a voice
or two or three
a whisper, a shush
a rush,
of wind over the trees
turned inside out
the leaves
showing silver undersides
to signal
the weather's hard turn
and all the voices
bleat in the leaf song
turn your silver side
to me, to me, and hear
me cry for you to remember
but I cannot, cannot
pick just one
to leave to face
the tearing wind,
and forget the others

[Kay Syrah]

II.

The wind inhabits
the house,
teasing the windows
till they cry,
giving with every
whisper and sigh
the lie,
to safe within.

The wind turns
everycorner banging
the picture wall
rattling the diplomas
and the portraits
and the hallowed smiles,

The wind, the uncareful
housewife, knocks
the implements
for cleaning against
the tiles
and the cupboards,
opening the places
where memory keeps safe
and empties and scatters
and scours, hours hidden
against time.

The wind's pushpull
insistence wearies
the latches till
they give, surrendering
all kept within
to the exuberant
rollicking rolling retreat
that takes all prizes
to cross the horizon's
red ruddered cloud sailed
sunset, the chore
completed and stars wink
into announcement
of silence settling
the dust cloths
and the brooms
till work begins again
tomorrow.

[Camachee]

dissonance
is the assonance
of persuasion
absent
the charm

[Camachee]

small black cats
profess immunity
to the silvered
slivered
sliding fingers
of frost
secure
by the fire
for now

[Camachee]

she came to me
a mist
a grey miasma
a shape riding
in dark thought
while i dispaired
deplored
bright color
and relented

sometimes
sleep
is the accomplice
of a
false dawn

[Camachee]

sometimes
i value
the zen
of not
writing

[Kay Syrah]

Keep me down on the farm


Ants must know
economies of scale
as in, if you want
to be free
climb a higher wall
cause it's the climbing
that justifies the wall
not the wall
that justifies climbing.

Still tunnels channel
the busy outworkers
to a place of buzz and hum
get and take,
and up and down,
antennae stroking
for the latest
information on cool.
So fine.

Living streams of instruction,
halls of learning without
walls or indexes
just the temporary
pheromones and syntaxes
of scent and sense
which will be passe
tomorrow anyway.
oral traditions are
immediate to the senses
so much more than
first editions.

[January24th]

Losing sleep

my son
doesn't understand
that i still
feel the chill
of the almost
but didn't
happen
thank god

he got better
and moved on
he says,
thinking me silly
for worrying about
what never almost happened

he survived
but doesn't know
that day-
that day
that he
inflicted me
with the immortal
reality
of separation's
finality

i'm glad he fought
and won
but this scar
of truth remains
i turn over and
search again
for sleep

[Camachee]

i looked
at you
silent
and naked
imagining
your self
in clay
at play
with the
adonis
i have
hanging
on my wall

[Kay Syrah]

Night watch


Soft rooms of old
memories when
vulnerabilities
responded to our
self deception and
interception of easy
dangers thinking
we the gods of life
offering all protection,
The easy stripped
apprehension that love
wraps us in our
own power to delay
and distract
and heeds our imagined
intercession against
the truth we can deny

if only for
the just ended day
and sleep
places all in
time stilled
suspension, till
we understand
futility and think we
can make the bargain
trading sleep,
for the night watch
of the red clothed
procession exchanging
dreams for the illusion
that vigilance
is all we need
to keep mortality
away

[Kay Syrah]

"How stupid, how stupid!" thought Ryabovitch, looking at the running water. "How unintelligent it all is!....

And the whole world, the whole of life, seemed to Ryabovitch an unintelligible, aimless jest. . . . And turning his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he remembered again how fate in the person of an unknown woman had by chance caressed him, he remembered his summer dreams and fancies, and his life struck him as extraordinarily meagre, poverty-stricken, and colourless. . . . "

Its not the cycle
of Spring and water
and running tides
full of possibilities
that fret the frozen
soul, but the acceptance
of the great mistake
that happiness is
an illusion granted
in a dark room in
in the error of an
opened door, an
unintended embrace in
the fog of silk and perfume,
A fool, for just a bit awake
too quick to consign
error to its origin
and find it fine.

[Soaring Feather]

Absolutely beautiful.

[January24th]

Brilliant. Just gotta say it, Hon. Lovely!

[Camachee]

sad
when
i don't know
my poetry
but
i live
with desire
more
than language
and expression
less
than sensation

[Camachee]

let's
survive
the suicide
of romance
of happenstance
of ignorance
and settle
for the silence
of an adoring
sigh

[Camachee]

it's hard
to handle
the intention
of a verse
or a cat

[Camachee]

bob oppenheimer
feared a sunset of fussion
what secrets to keep

[Camachee]

writing is the point
my autobiography
will hear no witness