Time Passing, Who Knows Why?

(C) R.L.K.

Yesterday there were sparrows
in the treetops and over them
a sky beyond blue. This morning
no birds sing and dark clouds
crowd the rooftops. Umbrella in hand,
you follow the old sidewalk, moving
slowly, weighted down with farewells.
Passing the park, you notice that the wind
is nudging the empty swings. The rain
falls like sadness on the grass
and you hear in the distance
another train bound bound for nowhere.

The Train I Ride

(C) R.L.K.

It wasn’t the first time I had stared out the window
of a train bound for the city,
while the wind whistled outside,
while the thin trees swayed,
and over the rain-soaked rooftops
a sad dawn was rising
like an old man who has lost touch with his friends,

but it was the first time in a long time
I remembered that day years ago
when we rode another train together
away from the city,
and the wind was still,
the trees were thick with white blossoms,
and the sunlight glinted off the window.

How Steadily Returning

(C) R.L.K.

There is something
about the rain tonight --
how it drops
into the funnels of the streetlamps,
how it sprays off the maples,
or burbles in the gutters,

and how it does all this
as if to welcome me
back to my hometown.
The rain makes it easy to remember
other nights, dreams dreamed
as only youth can dream them.

It all fits somehow,
the pale light, the shadowy trees,
the sounds of a summer night
like so many summer nights,
the old familiar things
reflected in a puddle of rain.

Summer Sequence

SUMMER SEQUENCE
(C) R.L.K.

Slow old train crossing a rusty bridge;
the night assumes the shape of rain.

....
Pale moon peeking through parting clouds;
Willows bow at the end of the road.

....
One thin dime in the beggar’s cup;
how many summers have come and gone?

....
Dusty boots left out on the porch;
the evening wind rustles the curtains.

Non-Sonnet

NON-SONNET
(C) R.L.K.

It’s the kind of summer morning
that might make you think of an
Edward Hopper painting: bright sky,
empty street, shuttered shops, and,
of course, trees looming in the distance,
lending strangeness to the landscape. So,
what’s that feeling? Why, it could be
the lowdown lonely town wander around
nowhere bound blues coming on. That’s
tuneful enough, a way to say “how it
really is”: this day, this scene where
nobody waits to be in somebody's dream.
Just jot these notes, then: Seven a.m.
Sunlight and shadow on old stone stairs.

The House She Lived In

THE HOUSE SHE LIVED IN
(c) R.L.K.

You might come upon it suddenly, unexpectedly,
when you are out walking at twilight. Perhaps the wind
will be blowing cold, and the willows that line the old road
will be swaying, their shadows flung across new-fallen snow.

Maybe you will notice the light on the porch
softly glowing, the door rattling as if longing
to be opened, the windows reflecting clouds.
It will all seem strange, yet it will all seem familiar.

And you will walk on, thinking of past things,
of long slow days with sunlight and songs in the air.
You will walk on, while the moon rises
in the sky above this world built of dust.

Newku

NEWKU
(C) R.L.K.

1.
sun slowly sinking --
beside the old pond
willow branches shudder in the wind

2.
under a cloud-cumbered sky
silent streets,
trees embracing the dusk

3.
rain fizzles
out; one note
from the wind chimes

4.

just after midnight;
the streetlamps
hang like misted moons