Kingsley Station

Original Poetry | 11/25/2003 | January24th

[Kay Syrah]

Butterflies
don't choose
beauty
but collectors do

Art isn't just
the moment of meaning
but critics think so.

[Soaring Feather]

Critics have a fickle eye
prefer flashing color
for the moment
now when discussing
the color of the Butterfly
each eye will discern
a different color
unlike the color of love
a red color
is used to detail
the phases of intense
stages of review

And when it dies
color too is used
fires dieing burning low
and cold white ashes
under the snow

Dried brown leaves
or black like death
need no explanation
we just know

[Kay Syrah]

quit that! I have to get to work.....

Just had to
throw up a game
free cell to clear
the mind,
a little
ball of intellectual sherbet
to cleanse the mental
palate and prepare
for the next course.

and now that I have
stripped before the
world and showed my
weaknesses and the<
meaning of the
pauses that reside
between the lines of
inspiration, I hope
that it isn't described
or quantified,
you do it HOW many times?

and designated a pathology
or given a name and its
named after me.
I don't think I want
that kind of immortality.

[Kay Syrah]

Dried brown leaves
or black like death
need no explanation
we just know

Sometimes the dark
underpainting underpining
all our lives and experiences
gives the depth to the layer
of colour and what we see
and imagine, a glaze
layered laid in
pain, read in the light
that glows thru
a resonant spirit
of unrestrained resiliance

[Soaring Feather]

When it comes to dancing
I'm good late at night
my colors I wear
with out fright
and I do adore
the night
the silence
the imagined noises
the yellow pallor
of candles burning low
for like a bat
my hearing intensifies
in early morning hours
and my skins zings
with electric pulses
energy on the wing

[Soaring Feather]

and imagine, a glaze
layered laid in
pain, read in the light
that glows thru
a resonant spirit
of unrestrained resiliance

Nice finish....

[January24th]

Full
naked moonlight
slatted shadows of silver
streaking across our bodies
accenting the contours
of our contented tangle

angles
rounded by the soft light
intersecting and blending
our outlines
with sylvan lines
upon our
oriental bed

luxurious night beams
light streams of laughing joy
to see our forms
re-formed in the
abstracted
Venetian play
of the moon's imagination

an alien light
so familiar
has filled our chamber
with art and ambience
with love's pretended mystery
sweet, sated moon
satisfied
full...

[Soaring Feather]

While the moon is full
I reach for you
to touch your face
to feel your beard stubble
to snuggle near the warmth
of your body

wrapped in moonbeams
and rumpled red satin sheets
the quiet of a loving night
and listen for your
steady breathing
feeling the rise and fall
of you chest

oh would this moment
to last forever
as two in love
become one

tasting our joy
on the tip of my tongue
and the memory of that
indescribable night
burning in my mind
like a wild fire
out of control
yet, holding within
the borders of reality

[Camachee]

i have
the harlequin
habit
of wearing
more hues
then my
harried jury
will consider

[Camachee]

you
paused...
as though
persuaded
that a comma
is a comment
and a colon
an emergency

[Camachee]

karpov
castled
for the world
and lost
bulgaria

[Camachee]

you dream
of tomorrow
i write
of tonight

[Soaring Feather]

My harlequin colors
were never juried
parole allowed me
to experiment with more
than black
so I took a whack at
lavender and blues
flipped a red scarf or two
and discovered I like nude

[Camachee]

i belong
to a blue glass
socialism
lamenting
the schism
between
rum
and outcome

[Camachee]

and discovered I like nude

kodak
shutters
at the lack
of color
but i like it

[Soaring Feather]

A sticky lens
can be a fright
no half tones
need apply

[Camachee]

you asked me
to link
my memories
to your mind
and i thought

maybe

[Soaring Feather]

There are some
good links
of memory
high plateaus
hot sandy nights
desert dancing
in cyber space
for the moment
the memory is keen
there was a good connection
it's stored in bytes

I feel the sizzle

[Camachee]

i felt
a blue whale
flapping wings
thinking
of other things
soaring
unconcerned
by the gray mist
of a dawn
breeching

[Kay Syrah]

a mordida

love suffocates
not in the
honest bravado
of the aggression
that dares the
golpe de estado
but in the entitled
interest taken
from every moment
of inspiration