Sunday, September 27, 2015


©  Steve King
All rights reserved

The clockface called it morning,
but without sense of newness,
nor of a moment pregnant
with light upon the world:
time enough to count the hours backward.

My sigh rolled across
a clutch of gathered blankets,
ill wind coursing on a naked peak.

My shadow fell across the emptiness—
stormclouds close upon a fallow field.

A new poem for The Poetry Pantry

Friday, September 4, 2015

These Mornings

© Steve King
All Rights reserved

These mornings the old men,
staring through the fog of coffee steam,
sing of spirits visiting their dreams,
and of a distant year,
of tears that will not balm
things that were simply meant to be.

And ritual tales of fair desire
to claim the place of memory;
laughter to deny that certain moment;
myriad reasons safely hid,
meanings that are cloaked amid
the fog of these mornings.

A new poem for The Poetry Pantry