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!

[Soaring Feather]

Very nice J24, very nice.

[Camachee]

i have sinned
walking
in the world
but this
must be
love

-Rickee Lee Jones-

[Kay Syrah]

Essential

Which part of me
would you
separate from
the recipe and let
the part be the whole?
Which ingredient
can console
your taste or sate
your appetite or need?
And can you like the
savour of sipping
the diminished broth
if it lacked
the essential part,
the one that formed
my love for you?
And if you had
to name it how
would you choose
the thing that
made us we.
And declare the
dish complete.


So comand the broth
to return to marrow,
and the marrow
to the bone
and the bone
find flesh again
and we start fresh
tomorrow, this time
with less salt,
no matter that
what you would
leave out
is the salt
of my own sorrow.

So you would have me
be your soul
soup today, and your
hunger fades and renews
But what remains
of us will
be consumed
and the future is only
borrowed.

[Soaring Feather]

Tonight moon fire strikes us
and time is his reward
waiting to awaken the
watcher of stars...

For we still love with desire
looking beyond our life
we crossed the planets to
touch our personal heaven...

bentfeather

[Soaring Feather]

Essential


This poem is absolutely beautiful.

[Camachee]

disregard
the silhouettes
i invented

[Camachee]

you
told me
angry
was
an
option

[Camachee]

disdain
the implication
that good guys
arrive
alive

sometimes
momentun
is just about
statistics
and sadness

[Soaring Feather]

you
told me
angry
was
an
option

not when
it's silhouetted
on the wall

[Camachee]

why does
a woman fear
her lover's
friendship
or become
disquieted
unrequited
during
the moments
of his silence

[Camachee]

warm black blanket cat
winter promotes a snuggle
please get off my toes

[Camachee]

Übermann
understands
that zeitgeist
is just
the distance
between
tightrope
and tumble

[Camachee]

it's a sad
fatalism
that decrees
paper
always looses
to scissors

[Camachee]

come here, my sweet dear, he intoned
i am not so much granite as stoned
i'll not, she replied
for my virtue is tied
to being promised but never being loaned

[Kay Syrah]

Like Watson and Crick, we're joined at the hip,
Shall we take a recombinant trip?
It could be so felix,
make our own double helix
but first we would have to unzip.

[Soaring Feather]

Being joined at the hip
would be quite a trip
climbing the helix
would perplex
A variance in order
special exceptions
from Peta and the EPA
to unzip in public
in the broad light of day

[Kay Syrah]

broads light
up the night
like day,
with dispensations
from delegations
of the poetry police
its a fur cry
from alley cats
who hover in the dark
seeking zoning variances.

[Camachee]

if you
doubt
the salience
of tomorrow
what subsequent
events
will suffice
to satisfy
your hunger
and linger

[Kay Syrah]

tomorrows reflection
casts no shadow on today
and yesterday's rumination
is but a dry summation
that keeps the future
at bay.
Doubt isn't the base
of the macrobiotic pyramid
and hunger isn't the reason
that love lingers.

[Kay Syrah]

My beloved falls,
just a litte, defying
gravity's full stop
redefining the first law
of motion without its doubt.

My beloved falls,
between the lit and obscure
quoting Cervantes,
in the shadowed room we share
which cannot abide more light.

My beloved falls,
between the bivalved refuge
of my nacred arms
not asking me to pearl him
I forgot I loved the stone.

My beloved falls
in my garden of raked sand
and rock quiet order
an unasked question marking
the still edges of not yet.

My beloved falls
into the places I left
for just the moment
not thinking his abstractions
were more than I could foget.

My beloved falls
momentum's exclaimation
into the future's
fast fading recollection
of love more than direction.