Driftwood Dreams

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

bright sands raked by an unyielding wind

grey sea trimmed with white breakers

gulls adrift pure of flight on their distant azure plain

and the driftwood holding at the center

still through tides and gathering dunes

unmoved

as if in rapt dreaming

of dark mother forests so long gone

and damp wooded ground

a hint in its sere core

of the taste of ripe loam

from some other distant shore

dreaming all one

bright sun and sands

‘til it becomes a hatrack

             in some idling tourist’s hand

Preposterous Analogies Drawn From Late Night Reflections On Gravity

©  2012 Steve King

All rights reserved

The highest laws notwithstanding...
there are things 

that accelerate to vacuum,

hurtling straight through complex time and space

across the undisplaced fabric

of infinite emptiness—

unbalanced quanta at the helm,

terminal velocity,

scanning for some fixed horizon,

tumbling to a missing point of mass—

ah…these vectors of surplus desire!

Each habit of affinity

instills a mad sense of place,

even to uncentered orbits,

even in an empty room.

It’s easy to remain relentless

on well traveled paths;

dying hard, the  habits,

tracing new maps written in old scars,

so many things so well-survived,

scars so profoundly you,

there would not else-wise be a you.

So forget that silly inverse square—

just another law that begs repeal:

things at the furthest distance

always pull the most,

and absence yields the one metric

to reckon all strong forces of the heart.

The Fire

©  2012  Steve King All rights reserved Well— this fire begot something to trim the leavings of the night: ancient spirits in the smoke; rekindled hope speaks from each tongue of flame; ember upon ember, old inclinations leap to light, then sift their ashes through my heart again. I know the fire shall shortly die, just as all regret is said to wane. I taste these ashes one more time, and know there is no reason to complain. A taste of ashes may remain, but no one ever need explain; I would relive it all the same, and take no moment to complain

All Is Well

by Steve King

© 2012

All is well, I promise you.

Do not be concerned by my

sometimes detached bemusements.

These are but easy retreats

to unspoke and stubborn dreams

where the past pursues new forms

and new wants reshape old charms.

You must not think ill of me.

These diversions inform but

my own still imaginings—

sparring with my old designs,

sanctuary from keen foils,

or just finding silence there—

call it whatever you will,

it is just a tiny step

removed from your waiting world.

Yours is no thin shadow place

to leave behind.  No burdens,

satisfactions unfulfilled,

no wasted unique glories

to drain the measure of me.

All is well enough, I know,

there in the outward brilliance

of common sight, where you wait

for my strange quiet to end.

I would explain everything

of this musing well within;

but there is still mystery

lying at the heart of it.

This mystery, this darkness

will not yield to my desires.

It’s a backdrop set against

somber glows from ancient pyres,

whose light never penetrates

inward from its waning fires.

And so shall the darkness grow

with accelerating years,

swallowing whole things once known,

making my dreams slip their grasp,

while old songs reprise as sighs.

I would trace each scattered spark,

and would try to harmonize

each echo, each fading note.

So far will my eyes not see,

nor ears own such reverie.

Yet all is well, believe it.

All remembrance must be so.

And so indeed, I wager,

are the unsung harmonies

a-play beneath your calling.

I will wait when it must be,

while you linger inwardly,

while you the passing choir

illumine with the flickering

of your own secret fire.