Small Soliloquy

©  2017 Steve King

All rights reserved

The blind view

and that hot rain—

each new storm

a sudden death,

soon again.

The recalculation

of every old move:

merely an echo,

a hard refrain.

The world will turn.

I cannot say

where true horizons fall.

Light to night,

night upon light,

every age must scribe its own,

though some stand everywhere alone.


A new poem for Friday 55 with Joy Jones
http://versiscape-lifesentences.blogspot.com/ 

The Gathering

©  2017  Steve King

All rights reserved

He leaned so naturally,

bent to shadow by the moon.

He asked if I had a match.

‘I don’t smoke, myself,’ he said,

‘but I must look to my watch,

for the times are old.’

So soon, it gathers like a dream,

the waiting while his moon burns hot,

and all my world grows cold.

A poem for Joy Jones’ Friday 55

Adept

© 2017 Steve King

All rights reserved

I wish that there were fewer words,

or better weight to fill them up,

with sense alive to leap each pause,

and means to separate all ends from cause.

This randomness I’ve long endured,

and though it bears me with an ease,

I cannot help but mourn each blank,

adept, it seems, but never sure.

A new verse for Friday 55,

so graciously hosted by Hedgewitch.