Ontario

© Steve King

All rights reserved

As I look out on winter, I recall

the night we took that long and rutted road

away from a familiar highway

to peer beyond a veil of swirling snow

on the expanse of vast Ontario.

We paused along the hard and bitter shore

imagining some far horizon there.
An easy reach, or so it seemed to me,

enfolding our discrete eternity.

We strode on currents hidden through the ice

and glossed the secrets of that unknown depth;

two unlikely figures setting forth,

to mark a presence with each random step.

There came no warming aftermaths to this,

nor frozen moments halting our design:

one interlude supplanted by a next,

enough to match the reasons of the time.

The way it was in winter, one day when...

And now is winter so much part of me

that I can just recall that early glow.

The fires are banking now; and even so,

I still can say that it was well enough,

when once we lingered far from strut and show,

to dance with our desires in the snow.

A new poem for d'Verse OLN

dVerse | Poets Pub 

Not In Winter

© Steve King

All rights reserved

Footprints in October snow

will never outrun

lengthening shadows.

I may only listen

while winds tear each tree—

leaves in torment;

below, brown grasses

barely move.

I know an old man

who never leaves his room.

He’s become annoyed

at the sound of his own stylus,

cannot think to see.

He has written everything he can,

has lived twenty lives in his mind,

and known all he thought would ever be.

He watches the sun;

listens, too,

hears the world moving,

slow, coming round

to claim its bounty back.

He is willing,

for the times are not his own,

newness gone,

every measure taken

so far as he might reach.

Willing.

But not just yet, he said to me.

No. Not in winter.

A new poem for the Poetry Pantry 
Poets United 

Alas, Love, Alas

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

Alas, Love, Alas—

I must be a fortress now.

I am sworn to another

and must duty hold,

though I revel in your warmth,

recalling her so cold.

Alas, my Soul, Alas—

I cannot resist the call

of your whispers in the night,

even in my dreams.

Every vow imprisons me,

while every instinct screams.

Alas, Heart, Alas—

She is ever distant now.

Must I wait on bitter fruit

with your sweetness here?

Cover me with cloak and kiss;

before she reappears.

Alas, Life, Alas—

I can never bear this price.

Without Love my Soul is lost,

my Heart a wretched waste.

I have never held the means

to savor Love in haste,

so let us linger while we may,

and all temptations taste!

An exercise very much in an old style for

Poets United

I Wish That I Might Write...

©  Steve King

All rights reserved

I wish that I might write the way

that others do when they tell me

they’re moved by muses sharing free

all the things there are to say.

I wish I had that bully roost

with tones to echo in the vault,

whispers ever to exalt,

and every ease to shout my news.

I pray for an occasioned flight—

but only faintest stars align;

no new discovered worlds shine,

no comets blazon my midnights.

Alas, I’m tethered to this earth—

the world my lens, support and reach;

every word a bloody breach,

each new strophe an orphan’s birth.

No satisfaction to inveigh,

like every thought that comes to stay

I’ll treat it gently, simply say:

I wish that I might write that way

those others tell of, every day.

 A new poem to be shared on

imaginary garden with real toads