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.

2. Shhhh! Please keep chat or comments to a minimum.

3. No huge graphics, blinking smiley faces, etc. Just words, please. Let your words paint the image! (Plus, it's easier for dial-up friends to browse.)

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

[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