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!

[January24th]

Fire Works

warm embers
hold such secrets
as we can't imagine
until we step back
in wonder
at the life
and heat that springs up
when we dare to hope
for something
breathing barely
wishing fiercely
fanning the fates
of ashen desires
seeking to
embrace an ember
and not be burned

[Soaring Feather]

Exquisite.

[Kay Syrah]

He was a cabochon
polished, unfaceted
suggesting the depth
that cuts thru the
ordinary expectations
of gems and the razzle
dazzle turns that enhance
the essence of crystal
but extinguished
by the smoothness
of experience.

[Soaring Feather]

She held the moon glow
of a perfect pearl
made from sand and mucus
a product of irritation
and self defense
She held her glow
in moonlight
age added to her luster
at the core she was soft
need the oil of love added
ensuring her antiquity
holding her own through generations

[Kay Syrah]

Hospitality

He sat on a porch
casually eating
an onion, and offered
me the breakefast of a sausage
and the efforts of his layers.

[Soaring Feather]

Peeling Onions

Dressed in thin translucent skin
her layers carefully held in place
by thin tissue - she was a sweet onion
curious about sausage in casings
made from innards of dead animals
she
pondered the possibility of a delicious
repast, exploring his layers of protection
and the downy comfort of feathers
on a wooden porch step

[Kay Syrah]

The porch is the invitation
to an inner welcome
but placed as a barrier
and a promise,

an onion waiting to
be flayed upon expectations
of flavour and favour
Y'all come on in now

[Soaring Feather]

ROFLOL!!!!!!!!

[Kay Syrah]

Yeah, I really, really love writing with you, too. More to come, hopefully, ROTFLMAO!!!!

[Soaring Feather]

Ditto!! ROTFLOL!!!! You're good.

[Camachee]

inspiration
invariably
lingers
at the bottom
of the bottle
making el paso
dreams
seem
a possibility

[Camachee]

i ponder
the red gold ingots
that float
like fireflies
behind closed eyes
too bitter brown
and blue
to view
a red reality
i don't control

[Camachee]

my cats
launch
incursions

[Camachee]

i was sent
a stack
of syllables
vertical
and seductive
searching
for an available
alternative
to alone
and ambiguity

I think I have entered the Domain of Alliterative Funk. Bear with me. It can't last too long.

[January24th]

"I think I have entered the Domain of Alliterative Funk."

Alleviate the allure
of alliteration
and little
is left to
the imagination

:)

[January24th]

copper-penny moon
of my musing
rising in the
eastern sky
giving flight to dreams.

dammit!

I was happily
resigned to regard
her arc and mood
a thing of my past yearnings
a fickle arbiter
of fate or fact
to remind me that
dreams are for the young
and the old...
the rest of us
just muddle on,
moonless
dreamless
cynical

and still...she rises
and smiles at me
and undoes my doings
and sends me aloft
to dream

[Camachee]

dammit!

Spock

i stargaze
without concern
for the one
but drawn
to your bright
astrology

[Camachee]

my first
was a lover
who taught
french
in a garden
arguing existence
but enjoying
now

[Kay Syrah]

littoral translations
written in imperfect
reflections of time
and tides,
he rode the highs
and the lows,
but it took close
to forty years
to understand

the rise and lapse of
seas seek only
their own
imprimatur upon
the lines of impression
of a wilderness
without promise
beached upon
the come and go
of restless sands,
and wishing water.

[Kay Syrah]

love me back, baby
echoes in concentric rings
seeking the center in a bitter
cup of morning brew,
sent by the rumble
of the train far below
the place where I now live,
And the window glass shudders
love me back baby, as the
lorry races by on the flyover
sending its reverberation
convergeant with the whine
of rubber on concrete,
The lift of coffee
dark and sugared to my lips,
interrupting the elemental shiver
that repeats in the jets
of arrival or departure
shaking and salting me
with the dark detritus
that lingers from the fuel burn,
and oils my dust with the idea
of leaving for just anywhere.
The motion of emotion lifts
then the beat of the bus
rocks the stop with
expectation, and I
think the harmony
is telling me
something's, gotta give.