Watchtower Dreams

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

He would not think of death,

who stood the steady watch.

For the dark shapes

had slipped from the field,

campfires all decoys, they said:

no horse noise there,

bloodied bronze at last gone mute.

Dark emptiness as he gazed to sea:

a single entity,

the field and sky,

the great water;

a nothingness,

past the eye,

past touch and feel.

It guarded hope, that emptiness;

made light the fears,

as if to seal the well of enmity

from which the blood had run.

‘They are gone,’ he thought.

‘Gone.’

‘The sea take them.’

‘I fear the gods, extoll them all

from the shadowed depths to the great heights.

So let gods bicker as the least of us,

let them bedevil themselves as men,

but not ever here again.

‘I will have dawn,

the touch of my bride,

she of the perfume and infinite song,

she who smiles with a thousand eyes…’

‘But…,

            ‘What…wait…

‘No—’

A new poem for Imaginary Gardens…
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this heart alone

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

this heart alone

so emptied of all things

fit only for wonder

and the press

yes the press

of damned recalcitrant sensations

sensation

born of a moment

as were fires of old

in the cold center

of a great dark space

faint new flicker

rising on the very edge

of each familiar empty place

edge

and will too quick unfold

across the ready arc

as if there just might be

some distant glory born

again for all to see

as if there may

be one who waits

bound to gather it fully

though darkness yet surrounds

this my heart alone

so empty now

of old impertinent things

patient for new wonder


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Just Seeing

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

When I peer into my eyes

the world is looking back-wards:

just reflection,

no perspective view

to shape all things

convergent to a one.

When I look into my eyes—

mirrors within mirror—

some unreachable other

signals back the flip side of my meanings,

hovering just beneath the gloss,

caught in near reality

that shall never truly come to pass.

Lost in a mirage of seeing,

faces that may never look beyond;

I cannot fathom what the mirror knows —

I cannot wonder from behind the glass,

can never hope to find myself by looking,

the way that I would gladly spy

a misplaced wallet

or a ring of keys.

Playing the charade,

I turn quickly from the frame

before the other knows to look away,

and leave that presence lingering,

captive in a growing horde

of disappointed shades—

‘til I shall try again

to find that certain vision,

still wondering in those uncertain moments

why nothing of that kind comes ready made.


A new poem for Imaginary Gardens...
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it rests so quietly the moon

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

it rests so quietly the moon

surface of the waters

deep with stars too

there rises a voice

to chorus brittle reeds

changing its tune always

as each wind turns its way

but I hear a certain song

as you would hear

were you still listening near

it is said there must be

distinction and some distance

in any harmony

as two separates conspire

to masquerade as the one

the ear must surrender

every compound use

and harbor only simple things

but this song comes and goes

a faint motif alone

in search of sturdier melody

song could not be made

more simple now

whisper of dead reeds

enough to score only

an incidental dream

a dream that with the song

does come and go

you with that waiting melody

so near but in another listening place

though I pray always for a harmony

I tell you I would do with less distance

A new post for Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads

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This night has blinded me

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

This night has blinded me.

Now must I seek another way

to have you:  a reflection shining,

bright prelude to all desires;

faint vibration of a lyric

to carry music of your instrument,

spirits of that old song calling,

only lacking your lips, tongue.

I have visions yet:

your eyes drawing me inward,

beacons on a quick advancing shore

even as the clouds cover me there,

heaving in the hold

of each relentless wave,

even as that haven slips from sight,

even as you render yourself free

from the enfolding tides,

offering faint note of what may come.

I gather you for now,

as tightly as may be,

while we are still something—

though never have we been

just one of that...

And all the restive dreams

are caught up as a damning retrospect:

pictures that must stand for you and me;

quaint figurines posed just so,

ready through the night’s eternity

to whirl a-dance;

all the while that other world waits new

the dawning of less gentling memories.

A post for Imaginary Gardens…

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