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!

[Camachee]

imagine
if you were
a cat
and i
a scratch

[Camachee]

dream
of xanadu
and regret
the dawn

[Soaring Feather]

Can we gather in memories
like leaves drifting in the fall
collect them in little treasure chests
jeweled lined trimmed in gold
and held in vaults bolted strong
and the time we might forget the
loving times or times of regret?

Can we hold these memories dear
as our eyes grow faded and old
and the ravages of time take their toll
to slow us down, make us look at reality

Times when the shore birds never come
to cast their shadow in the sand
or the times when gauze skirts are taboo?

When sultry hot summer nites and woman
loving the blues and rolled their hips
to the tune of a blues sax blowing on the dune
the dark or the gentle plucking of the harp
strikes a heart tune and our old lips hum along
or the foam along the bay gathering leaves to turn
to stone or the loves that came and went, but held
the rip tide of pain we spent.

Can we gather in the memories to hold
then in little clay baskets on a shelf
or watch the dance of time explode in our face?

bf

[Kay Syrah]

It just gets hotter

we leave but
a blue suggestion upon
the negotiable edge
of sand and surf
and thinning to transparency
the regular waves
wonder at the impression
of the rhythmic assault
that gives and takes.
adamant, we create
a transitory ecology
in the splash zone
that flanges our expectations
with anticipated guard changes
and tropical intimations
of theoretical seasons.

[Kay Syrah]

well, heck, I'm offline trying to compose and missing all the action. Looks like I'm hillbilly waltzer. LOL.

The dance of time is really all we have but I really love the colours that you guys bring to it.

[Soaring Feather]

You do very well yourself you know! :-)

[Kay Syrah]

well.....OK dear. :^].

[Kay Syrah]

Catalytic converter

I am exhausted and more
than a few ions short
of a charge,
but my cat hums
on my lap,
contentedly
tuned and ready
with environmental
equipment designed
to affect a climate change
and accelerate
exacerbate global
purring.

[Soaring Feather]

You are so clever! Good poem.

[Kay Syrah]

form

the abstract
shape of the pottery vase
contains the space
it imitates
but cannot imagine the hours
of emptiness that create
the original idea of flowers

[Camachee]

listen
while i wait
acquainted
with the blue
of tangurey
and tonic
a chronic
pause
between fulfillment
and lethargy
hearing nothing
but the squeezing
of a lime

[Camachee]

neruda
thought
candles
handles
on
tonight
and tomorrow

[Kay Syrah]

someone stole my fountain

the base metal
of wanting is
a new bill of lading
that means this journey
of course starts free on board
and a new destination awaits

there is a silver
puddle left
of wishing water
which normally accepted
to be splashed by a coin
with its prepaid freight of desire
or tickled as an after thought
as I passed it by,
dipping my fingers
into its current affairs thinking
“wouldn’t it be nice….”

But it was efficient as
it circulated
and I think I’ll miss
its dependable chuckle,
the carefree caressing of the stones
over which it flowed
like a really smooth guy
who’s always ready
with an appropriate reply
for everyone who wants one
and is willing to wait
for some action,

The silence of its absence
is unbearable.

[Camachee]

jimmy buffet
bought a boat
with mayan currency
hoping the resurgency
of tulum ruins
would payoff
in interest

[Camachee]

i saw a nude
prudish
but erudite
in the shyness
of erotica
welcoming a look
while stifling
a smile

[Camachee]

how should i feel
a rum-silent
so secure
smile

[Camachee]

her back
was painted
a madress
madness
i feared
would stain
the sheet
complete
with gods
and images
with which
i could not
compete

[Camachee]

half moon reflections
azure speaks for my soul
the rest is wanting

[Camachee]

you
let me
loose
to imagine
the difference
between
red sheets

[Kay Syrah]

What happened here

Some ghosts persist
in stalking the coasts
of ruined civilizations,
as if the shades of past
indiscretions are destinations
sufficient for itineraries
and attempts to alter
planned intentions are charged
with penalties that render
changed minds
a prohibitive expense.