Sunday, March 30, 2014

Watchtower Dreams

©  Steve King
All rights reserved

He would not think of death,
who stood the steady watch.

For the dark shapes
had slipped from the field,
campfires all decoys, they said:
no horse noise there,
bloodied bronze at last gone mute.

Dark emptiness as he gazed to sea:
a single entity,
the field and sky,
the great water;
a nothingness,
past the eye,
past touch and feel.

It guarded hope, that emptiness;
made light the fears,
as if to seal the well of enmity
from which the blood had run.

‘They are gone,’ he thought.


‘The sea take them.’

‘I fear the gods, extoll them all
from the shadowed depths to the great heights.
So let gods bicker as the least of us,
let them bedevil themselves as men,
but not ever here again.

‘I will have dawn,
the touch of my bride,
she of the perfume and infinite song,
she who smiles with a thousand eyes…’




A new poem for Imaginary Gardens…

Monday, March 24, 2014

this heart alone

©  Steve King
All rights reserved

this heart alone
so emptied of all things
fit only for wonder
and the press
yes the press
of damned recalcitrant sensations

born of a moment
as were fires of old
in the cold center
of a great dark space

faint new flicker
rising on the very edge
of each familiar empty place


and will too quick unfold
across the ready arc
as if there just might be
some distant glory born
again for all to see

as if there may
be one who waits
bound to gather it fully

though darkness yet surrounds

this my heart alone

so empty now
of old impertinent things

patient for new wonder

A new post for Imaginary Gardens...

Monday, March 17, 2014

Just Seeing

©  Steve King
All rights reserved

When I peer into my eyes
the world is looking back-wards:
just reflection,
no perspective view
to shape all things
convergent to a one.

When I look into my eyes
mirrors within mirror
some unreachable other
signals back the flip side of my meanings,
hovering just beneath the gloss,
caught in near reality
that shall never truly come to pass.

Lost in a mirage of seeing,
faces that may never look beyond;
I cannot fathom what the mirror knows
I cannot wonder from behind the glass,
can never hope to find myself by looking,
the way that I would gladly spy
a misplaced wallet
or a ring of keys.

Playing the charade,
I turn quickly from the frame
before the other knows to look away,
and leave that presence lingering,
captive in a growing horde
of disappointed shades
til I shall try again
to find that certain vision,
still wondering in those uncertain moments
why nothing of that kind comes ready made.

A new poem for Imaginary Gardens...

Monday, March 10, 2014

it rests so quietly the moon

©  Steve King
All rights reserved

it rests so quietly the moon
surface of the waters
deep with stars too

there rises a voice
to chorus brittle reeds
changing its tune always
as each wind turns its way

but I hear a certain song
as you would hear
were you still listening near

it is said there must be
distinction and some distance
in any harmony
as two separates conspire
to masquerade as the one
the ear must surrender
every compound use
and harbor only simple things

but this song comes and goes
a faint motif alone
in search of sturdier melody
song could not be made
more simple now
whisper of dead reeds
enough to score only
an incidental dream

a dream that with the song
does come and go

you with that waiting melody
so near but in another listening place
though I pray always for a harmony
I tell you I would do with less distance

A new post for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads

Monday, March 3, 2014

This night has blinded me

©  Steve King
All rights reserved

This night has blinded me.
Now must I seek another way
to have you:  a reflection shining,
bright prelude to all desires;
faint vibration of a lyric
to carry music of your instrument,
spirits of that old song calling,
only lacking your lips, tongue.

I have visions yet:
your eyes drawing me inward,
beacons on a quick advancing shore
even as the clouds cover me there,
heaving in the hold
of each relentless wave,
even as that haven slips from sight,
even as you render yourself free
from the enfolding tides,
offering faint note of what may come.

I gather you for now,
as tightly as may be,
while we are still something—
though never have we been
just one of that...

And all the restive dreams
are caught up as a damning retrospect:
pictures that must stand for you and me;
quaint figurines posed just so,
ready through the night’s eternity
to whirl a-dance;
all the while that other world waits new
the dawning of less gentling memories.

A post for Imaginary Gardens…