The Poet in the Realm of the Philosophers

(C) R.L.K.

....
We could say a symbol is like a rock
Dropped in a pool, sending out ripples
In every direction. We could speak of the need
To search for a metaphor, words of power,
Whatever it takes when confronting reality.

....
Think of it: a summer afternoon when
The rain comes, and with it the smell
Of dampness and dust that links today
With yesterdays on quiet side streets.

....
It's a world of things, and things in the world
Can slip away, or change in familiar ways,
As when a blue sky goes gray on an autumn day
While you sit on a park bench, alone, considering
The fall of the leaves, the briefness of it all.

....
There are nights cold enough for snow, yet cloudless,
When the moonlight falls into place, in an old place,
And the sound of the wind is the sound of the world.

....
Consider a day in spring: the geese
Returning, the willows swaying together,
Merging green with green, the sun
Lingering a little longer...

Prose Poem

(C) R.L.K.

Keeping in time, there’s a song we might sing, ‘Tis Autumn, season of change, of loss and of gain, a mosaic of summer and winter and spring; blue haze in the air, rustling red yellow gold leaves relinquished, afloat, afloat, falling, falling then returning to the circling winds. Now come the mists in the morning, the quiet afternoons when the brook drowses in its stony bed, the caws of crows in the dusk, the harvest moonlight and the stars’ frosty twinkle. And again, the last creakings of the swings, the thin old brooms sweeping the porches, the roadside grasses ripening with seeds, the sunlight streaming down on the asters, the orange gleam of the sugar maples, the far hilltops shimmering; rare days, days of coolness and calm.

Lunar Quartet

(C) R.L.K.

a moonlit night -
shaky old boxcars roll
slowly over the bridge
.
beside the still lake
the vagabond takes
the moonbeam path
.
weariness…
a thin white moon hangs
over the gnarled trees
.
at dawn
a high wasted half-moon
lingering

Dreamer to Dreamer

(C) R.L.K.

(For Gloria)

Here it is, another Sunday. The morning is almost gone,
A morning that has done little more than make rain puddles
On the sidewalk, and here we are, sitting on the front porch
Of an old house in an old neighborhood. Summer, too,
Is almost gone, and some of the trees have started
Tossing their leaves into the wind. Going, gone…
So much is already gone, yet here we are,
Waiting for a rift in the clouds to let sunlight
Shine on the damp grass, waiting for the rare leaf
That a smiling child will catch in flight.

Sestet

(C) R.L.K.

This August Sunday lingers long;
From hill to meadow, grass stems leap
In a bright wind. Birdsong
Fills the air. The sky is a deep
Blue. No cloud comes or goes.
Under the bridge the old river flows.

Especially Now

(C) R.L.K.

1.
morning clouds part -
a sparrow on a pine branch
welcomes the sunlight

2.
afternoon warmth -
now & then a tune
from the wind chimes

3.
midsummer night -
after her train departs...
stars & silence

Mostly Blue

(C) R.L.K.

(pieces for accompaniment by saxophone and piano)

....
It rained today, a soft steady rain,
falling from morning on into the afternoon,
falling slowly, surely, soaking the summer grass.
....
And here it comes again:
Another blue melody,
Another song about the rain
And the distance between you and me.
....
lines
of
rain
inching
down
on
an
empty
street
....
And at night, in the backyard,
the sound of rain dripping
from invisible leaves.