When/Ever

(C) R.L.K.

We speak of time gone by: a windy summer
evening, perhaps, with the moon newly risen;
the clamor of leaves on the trees along the path
that led to the hills; and the shadows that stretched out
on those hills when we would pause a while to look
down on the distant town and think that the world
held so much space - space enough for us
and all our thoughts of time to come. As if
space and time and the world made out of them
were made for us. Not so: we speak now and say
they are made for nothing, they matter little, as the moonlight
that brightened the night mattered little, but oh,
was beautiful, is beautiful, to speak of, now.

At Maple Lake - Spring

(C) R.L.K.

Not anything I made, not these brief things,

but things I saw about the natural world:

I wish that these could hold there, never be gone.

- William Bronk

birdsong drifts downhill;
the maples show a gauzy
green haze of leaftips
while a silver mist shimmers
over the lake at sunrise

Stepping Out for Another Evening

(C) R.L.K.

Day's work done, day's
last light draining
into the street.
Now, you pause a
moment, silent
on the weathered
stair, and wonder:
what is it that
remains of so
much coming and
going? Just the
wind, the motion
of memories?
Just that then. Just.

About Here & About Now

(C) R.L.K.

Here is where the wind has been known
to blow wildly for days, even weeks,
bringing rain with it: hard, slanting rain
from a low gray sky. Here is also where we are,
or sometimes are, for a mind may be elsewhere,
thinking, imagining, picturing something there,
arriving through the form of possible facts
at the form of a world that is, really, possible.
_____

Now it is evening; it is warm
and windy, and you have crossed
a wilderness of distance, from street to street.
A soft, small rain is falling, slowly,
into shadows blandished by the lamplight.

It is not quite spring, of course,
but no longer winter. You are weary
of thoughts of the past, and not ready
to think of the future, simply moving,
quietly, in a world somewhere between.

Upon the Path

(C) R.L.K.

Time is an intrinsic and measurable medium only in the realm of matter; in the realm of consciousness time is only a principle of perspective. - George Santayana

1.
February dawn --
Perched on a lamppost a crow
Guards the empty street.

2.
After a cold rain,
Thin beams of sunlight stream down
Upon wet awnings.

3.
One more old poet
Walks across the drifted snow --
Where did the years go?

Some Music, Please (Two Fragments)

© R.L.K.

1.
Noticing things:
the moonlight
spilling through the trees,

the train rails
disappearing in the distance,
the music of the words

chosen to say
what there is
to say,

    Days, moments,
    seconds,
    quickly fading.

2.
Piano practice tonight:
strange the way the notes become tunes
and start to sound familiar,

sad when they bring
thoughts of the past --
people, things… gone.

    The sun shines,
     the rain falls;
     some of us remain.

That’s philosophy for you,
there’s a lyric for the tune
everyone sings.

         

Ways of Moving

(C) R.L.K.

1.
A chilly grey December day:
All morning long, while the trees
Empty around us, we walk on,
While the wet wind swoops down
On the last songbirds, we walk on.

2.
After the downpour,
The moon, busy drifting among clouds,
Spares us a moment
To pour a little light
On the highway.

3.
Clouds parting, a glimpse
Of a few stars, train rolling
Slowly down the hill;
"Bless the path on which we go" --
The long haul's nearly over.