Kingsley Station

Original Poetry | 11/25/2003 | January24th

[Camachee]

the refrain
his name,
a name
released

silent symbols
salient silence
a circle
turning back
on itself
rings
the truth
without
naming regret

[Camachee]

krafft-ebbing
consolidated
kierkegaard
and freud
discounting
the notion
motion
of back
and forth
perceptual
outcome

i'm too yeung
to name
that game

[Soaring Feather]

The Sound of His Roar

His wings are the sound

of his roar

and his breathing is his love



His magic

to my nothingness of

riding his wind of love...



bentfeather
a/k/a MLH
Copyright © 03/16/04
All Rights Reserved

[Soaring Feather]

From the ink that is my soul
I write my songs
and sing to you

From the marrow of my bones
I ache for you

From closed eyes I read your face
and know every wrinkle in your brow
every laugh line around your eyes

And every shade of brown of your eyes
the curve of your mouth that makes
you look as though you're smiling
when you're not

And I feel your arms around me
from the last hug
and the way your face felt
when I kissed you good bye...

bentfeather

[January24th]

Wonderful things from all of you!

It's such a joy to
linger here a while
among thoughts and thorns,
roses and regrets,
gentle zephyrs
or punishing rains.
Usually the scenery
passes by the windows
of the club car
much too quickly.
It's nice to de-board,
stroll and refuel
here in this unlikely
yet lovely place.

Thanks.

[January24th]

Another Bedtime Story

we outgrow our bedtime stories
trading monsters and fair maidens
for the hard-won moment's glories
of an evening's relaxation

now we numb our thoughts and passion
give ourselves to faint blue light
let the subtler monsters rush in
selfish ogres, aging plights

yet awaits a land to dream in
good and rightness there prevail
gentle lull of moonlight beams in
as she arcs the sky full sail

take the hand of your moon maiden
dream of dragons, deeds and fame
you're a ship with treasures laden
a barbarian without shame

Cutlass-garbed and burden free
say goodbye to lesser mortals
venture into that bright sea
dream of lands with shining portals

bedtime stories never leave us
we just give them diff'rent frock
time for bed now, oh my darling
let us dream away the clock

[Soaring Feather]

Beautiful.

[Kay Syrah]

That is beautiful. A lovely tribute to the persistance of the spirit, and honour and dreams.

Your eyes pillow
my realities
in down coming
homeward sailing
boats finding
the proper slips
and docking dreams.
Tales of adventure
shortened into
lovers' code
taking me where
what broad
horizons seem
when ships
take on reveries
and bailing
isn't an option.

[Kay Syrah]

Who can require
more than the love
of poet's spirit fire
lucky in love they
flee the arc
of the welder's fire
unsure of what can be
built by the melding
of desire.

[Soaring Feather]

We sailed into the red sunsets of love
we stood at the helm determining our course
we set the sails for life we two
and wintered many storms a brew
in my heart there is only you
in the spring of life there was
strife that strained a lovers dream
now in silvered years we two
hold the helm steady on the course
for the star spangled heavens
on another sunset ship..
another long trip taking us to
heavens constellations
Jupiter and Mars....

If bailing were an option
while we are sailing
I doubt I would consider

bentfeather

[Soaring Feather]

From A Distance
I look with bittersweet eyes
to a world of what could have been
now left to the sands of time
my memory dims to that world
where we could have been
Somewhere Out There
You Are the Wind Beneath My Wings
but are now a memory
and a beautiful song
The Greatest Love of All...

bentfeather

[Kay Syrah]

i'm too yeung
to name
that game

oh, magister,
magister ludi
das glasperlenspiel
draws the movements
of your fugues
from the smokey
leaf left ash
that float and turn
repeat and inflect
sinuous, sense
and precision last
in the iconography
of the ultimate game.

[Kay Syrah]

Poet arranging

Marbles in a glass
Support waterless bare limbs
Spring sketched in shadows
Of seasonal arrangements
That recall love out of time.

There the last circle
Curved around the last retreat
Sounded by jonquils
When we last remembered spring
And surrendered without shame.

A cherry blossom,
Your cheek remembered colour
Along the dark limb
Described by my wintered heart
That blushed warmth again for you.

Bulbs spiked new soft soil
the sword point’s piercing salute
to the suns challenge
to be wounded yet again
summoning subsequent blooms.

Cut flowers assumed
The careless slouch of nature
In a cobalt vase
In the golden vault window
Returned upon their own shield


Spring’s hopeful campaigns
ran yet again to glory
Where we left ourselves
Subject to the call again
But the past picked, our story.

[January24th]

What a lovely Spring arrangement! A beautiful boquet of memory and color.

[Kay Syrah]

I have a bucket of hyacinths
that drink lustily
in their zinc coated bin
not knowing the cup
for either crystal or tin
but galvanised non the less.

[Kay Syrah]

"for whistling girls
and cackling hens
always come to some
bad ends."

"The whistling gypsy
came over the hill
and down to the valley so shady,
he whistled and he sang
till the greenwood rang
and he won the heart of a lady."

Puritan confusions stain
the song, reply and refrain
its not always the same sauce
for goose and gander
even in these enlightened days
but a tune's a tune for a' that
and gender is just instrumental.

[Soaring Feather]

I have a bucket of hyacinths

I have a bucket of daffodils tall
yellow in Spring brown in Fall
a wooden tub of Pansy faces
grace the garden in many places
Johnny Jump Ups cover the lawn
and Fiddle Head Fern from dusk to dawn
Tall old fashioned Day Lilies nestle
close to Bird Bath near a thistle
and I go into the back yard
and listen for a Cardinal's whistle...

[Soaring Feather]

Poet arranging


Exquisite

[Kay Syrah]

A lady note
the cardinal's whistle
red remembrances
and the curled
songs of the fiddleheads
put your lips together
and blow cause
we had it all,
like bogie and bacall.

[Camachee]

i write
less of lavender
and the blush
of blues
as our love
matures
morphed
into the crimson
of consuming fire
and the desire
for a truer
color