Thursday, February 16, 2023

The Ship From Delos

 By Steve King

©2023 All Rights Reserved


White moon

Upon the broken sea.

Winds course, and then they go.

Go and rise again to sing,

As if to hie the vagrant tides,

Force each flagging sail,

Pause to gather voice again,

Tiring soon, it seems again,

Of all the age-old hymns.

Until the ship at last comes in.


He wakes to breaking seas,

The usual clamor. 

He’d had enough of dreams,

Enough of friends,

And a surfeit of life;

Cared not for his every care,

Had passed the threshold

Of his every grief,

Sung of all he might desire.


He could not yield,

Dared not yield to friends,

Would not begin again.


For where better? 

And with what better men?


Like the winds,

And every old sunrise,

His days had come and gone.

He bade them, fond,

And girt his heart,

To augur no surprise.

Sunday, August 28, 2022

The Golden Field

© Steve King 2022

All rights reserved



A golden field

Need not be imagined.


It would stretch

Upon the limit of the sky,

Halting only at the lift of hills.


Dark hills not imagined either.

They seem to you

As all things do,

Things for all of times,

Through your every time,

Discovered and revived at every turn

Without seeming end,

Even as you breathe,

Ever as you are.

Summoned to your meaning in some way

The senses do not touch.


But I imagine now a cavern,

A crack in the stolidity

Of dark sitting hills,

Those hills that cast their shadows

To frame all bright fields,

And ground the very brilliance of that sky.


A field is but a commonplace,

As might be said of hills.


A cavern is not commonplace.

It will invite a bolder reverie.


Its darkness enfolds,

Holds one close, and ever,

Pressed to the great fear,

Enfolds the drama of an ultimate

That would consume

All quaint contingencies,

The emptying of time,

The hollowing of the heart,

The filling of graves.

The dread of all indifferent graves,

That measured fear of those

Who dance upon the world of light,

Supposing they might linger on bright fields.


Beyond the cavern mouth,

I come to settle among stones

And watch the drift of an uncertain light

Easing past hard corners,

That seems to shape them new

In each sudden moment,

Though every new drawn shadow

Must be the mind’s empty touch,

That brings no change forever.


The light shall sometime cease,

Even as all days shall cease

Even as the measured fears remain.


I play this fancy game

Imagining not fields nor the dark hills,

Not even caverns nor some distant sun.

Not any other thing.


I wonder only what the shades may know

In their studied and eternal rest,

That thing akin to blackness, which endures

An infinite realm.

Shades lain fast with all others,

Disincorporate, yet real

In that relentless imagining,


Relieved of need

But not, perhaps, of want.

They may not command the water bowl,

Nor the wine bearer.

Not now.


Nor savor the flesh treats,

None of them.


Not lust.

Not meat,

Not the balm of beauty for the eye,

Not riddling spells of word and thought,

That rend and mend the transient mysteries.


No, nothing of the world’s feast is theirs,

Nothing of its mystery,

Mystery finally overrun

By their new certainty.


The seasons are not theirs to say,

Sweet incense could not germinate new breath.

Command of life and death not theirs to say.

Song not theirs to play.


Even the river’s deep moan

Not even theirs to hear.


Not theirs to hear

Because it sings of life

And of beginnings

In music now foregone.


It would seem a lonely grave,

The empty, silent place,

Were it not for the myth of memory you bring.

Imagining and  memory, those shades,

A memoir both of anguish and of bliss,

As if there were rare heavens and new hells,

Memories as long as their new night, those shades.

As full as such imagining might be

Even for ones still and somnolent.


As full as this new night might seem at last to me,

Though weightless even with imagined moons,

And sometime memory of golden fields.

Wednesday, April 27, 2022



©Steve King 2022

All rights reserved


I sit in a room

That is filling with their words,

Each sound rising as if it were anew,

Separate still and ever out of sorts.


I hear them even now,

Before they are complete,

Every first and last:

How these words may dwell,

Freed from their obscure and beaten shore.


Perhaps they do not know them in this way,

The way that I do hear them told,

The way that I can see them made.


But each knowing must suit as fair

As any knowing may,

As fair as mine might serve them,

Were I inclined to say.


Always a reach for solace,

But not for silence.

Extolling and abjuring,

That old desire to condole,

Raptures near yet ever out of reach.


The thought that every word

Might serve for any song,

A hint of some small hope

That swings on the blunt edge

Of this noise, this stir,

That taunts upon the busy air.


As if there really were a song

For every wish that’s ever heard,

As if the touch of every jumbling dream

Holds well enough to carry us along.




Monday, March 14, 2022


 ©2022 Steve King

All rights reserved



Do you think Narcissus knew

Every shadow in his pool

As he knelt to ponder love?


Did he fathom new and strange

In the darker eddies there,

That pressed the corners of his frame? 


As echoes of his dreams unwound

He mourned the beauty love had found.

Bitter tears rained all around,  

To fall as flowers on the dying ground.


Thursday, March 3, 2022


©Steve King 2022

All rights reserved





Today I am surprised

That I am surprised today.

It seems I breathed an unfamiliar word,

That gathered to me, measuring the air.

A strange tongue speaking yet in stranger ones,

Wilder music to cling upon me,

Like clouds and gales upon the passive season,

Giving every name to light and dark,

And unthought visions in between.

It whispered, too, of strange desire,

Summoned old regrets,

Almost as friendly spirits after all,

That never would take flight.

All fillips to some new imagining,

And every kind of sudden thing

That once might stream the dreaming night,

But now would dance upon my busy light.


Leaves called in chorus,

Knee deep grasses hissed their harmonies,

Alive to me, they seemed,

Or moving with what I would take as life:

Sentinels for the far keening voice,

That distant one I must at last attend,

Each breeze now a most solemn fanfare,

Heard, unheard, now heard again,

Every falling echo leaving note,

Another prelude rising to its place,

Each gathered voice, insistent marriage

Of worship and command.





I plumb this new world

And yet dare hope for more.

Greedy are the senses,

Filling now with my submerged intents,

Spawned from the uncertain depths

To take their turn beneath the light,

Untethered now and finally free

To fly at last from all untended hopes.





All desire, then,

Alive with heavy mystery,

A presence come to harrow memory,

Revealing to my new regard

That which I once had labored to forget,

Or never truly knew—

Or knew, but in that street-smart kind of way

That answered with sly ease

At every call to meaning I had heard:

The reservoir of constant joke,

The turns of small evasion,

Shades of sundry casual and well-intended lies,

The measure of equivocation,

And the easy acquiescence to all things

That fair weather conviction

Might manage to evoke,

As near to truth as lies might ever be.

And yet I knew they sang some truth of me.



Yet not so.

Not so sure

As the unyielding reach

Of every lingered love,

Whose hold would never loose

The shades of sudden and unsettled dreams.


Ever and unyielding,

Sure, before, hereafter,

Always and invincible,

Though not invincible

Old lovers.







A fractal specter,

Whole in these my fragments, if at all,

Fragile as a dreamless sleep,

That bears no weight of beauty.

I moved as if a stranger,

Lost upon the once known paths,

Always walking, ever waiting,

Subject now to all emergent things.


The old joys of the clamorous street,

These are not for me.

Not now.

Their common music resonates,

Distant and discordant,

Without time or right of place.

The old epiphanies abate.

I tire, feel the world tire,

Relentless in its hurtle,

Ever apace,

Lugging its old life

And the weight of all the new surprise,

All one and the many,

Each rupture and each union,

Confusions and the graces,

Every dread and death’s head,

The things that bloom in faintest light,

To trace for me the flow of surging dreams,

Whose bounds must bear the death of every tide,

Where every fate at last is satisfied,

The settling place of cold desire,

And shock of new surprise.

Caesura for the hum of grasses,

Subtlest harmony of breeze.


I am the shadow of these things.

A stubborn thing.

I am.

Still well alive in every word

Old or unfamiliar.

Alive yet in these living dreams

That any unsought word might bring.

Mindful of a sometime peace,

For restless shades that will not ease.







My thoughts may not for long forsake their times,

Though passing griefs might struggle to deny.


Those unfamiliar words unwind,

To frame these dreams of every kind,

All loves and shortfalls present now,

To measure, finally,

what the world endows.



Sunday, August 16, 2020

A Certain Morning

©Steve King

All rights reserved



This window admits little light,

even as the sky is lifting blue.

These morning clouds appear too soon.


Day upon day,

measuring in moons

and a slow dark drift of stars,

all disappearing, while I try

to purge these eyes of everything

that would invent new dawns.


I called indeed at first

from the distant center of a dream,

dreamed that you had answered

through a dark cloud of your own.

I could not hold those meanings

in a heart’s uncertain light,

so all the while I prayed to wake alone.


Watching to night’s latter end,

I’ll not disturb the shadows, no;

nor any of the rising shades within

that must at once be mine and yours.

Or even you and me.

These mingle in a kind of drizzle grey just now,

not rich enough to pass for color,

nor for things found in a decent light of decent day.


I stir now with desire as to a perfect stranger,

just that way the perfect stranger knows,

stretched beyond the bounds

of new and old beginnings,

those with neither name nor place,

and of each recollection

whispering the deaths of easy ends,

for I am poor at heeding these

and shall not try again.


I seem but a dream, inviolate,

and would deny the moment.

Each thought retreats,

spent waves slipping dark sands,

lost to looming tides

and the refuge of the deep.


Yet some true measure must abide

to spin such shadows out of sight.

Some shall flee, while others keep;

all else that’s left defies the old commands.

What this may be, I render to your hands.


Saturday, June 20, 2020


©  Steve King
All rights reserved

A notion,

the ways
I gently betrayed
some things and those moments,
the castaway times.

A strange flight from language
and every reply
that never made sense.

Awakened at last,
from old sweating dreams,
not quite memory,
but grown more real
with each new escape,
immersed in remains
of my clever refrains.

Still, daytimes I long
for night’s comforting chains.

Wednesday, May 27, 2020


©2020 Steve King
All rights reserved

The Lark is spinning in his songless height,
the awesome mountain winds pass where they will. 
My dreams are well enough to hold each night,
though every word that might have served is stilled.

The high cascades will hasten in descent,
the killing torrent, and the eddy’s foam,
and finding their true level, will be spent,
to gather once again in ocean home.

The peal of music that did pitch my heart
returns to play in memory sometimes;
but even while faint melodies restart,
I cannot these days conjugate their rhymes.

Adept false prophets prosper everywhere,
and every grace I’d own is second guessed;
now, always, peace must conjure with despair,
and paradise contend with wilderness.

Yet every moment brings a promising,
a new intention set to satisfy.
The shades of all regret must take to wing,
so never more to gather and deny.

And while I wait to hear my Lark descend,
each thought anticipates his choired throat.
Though bound to earth, my hopes ever intend
my soul to soar once more and greet his notes.

A new poem for

Thursday, April 16, 2020

What Would I Do?

©2020 Steve King
All Rights Reserved

What would I do if favored wishes
Came like the rains to cover me?

What would I do?

Would I content to empty my soul
of blazened dreams, untested hopes?

Every desire within my grasp,
Real to my eyes, each waiting sense.

Spent to time and easy use,   
Mine no more.

What would I do?

A little something for Joy’s 55

Thursday, March 26, 2020


©2020 Steve King
All rights reserved

I have not found traces
Of anything eternal
By searching.

Nor held in my reflection
Any measure save my own.

Each gathered moment
Emptied of all others,
Touch of rumored spirits
Fickle as dying winds.

Found amid strange silence, 
Wondering at my place
In this peculiar dream.

Listening in emptiness
For what silence shall sing. 

Friday, February 28, 2020

And now is winter

by Steve King
© 2020 All rights reserved

And now is winter well begun,
every old hard dream.
Forgotten, that fair suite
that flew the distant airs of spring.

Morns, I chant the same old lies:
how each new increment of evening sun
promises of kindlier things to come;
how darkness is that salutary thing
where one might pause
and get forgetting done.

A new poem for Joy's 55

Saturday, February 15, 2020


©  Steve King
All rights reserved

Light gone,
curtain down
echoes ringing
in high shadows—
still he hears them,
live things he’d command to follow
through the exit door
briefly into blinding light.

And those faces—
pastiche of regard
that he used as his mirror
while he preened;
strained to see them, sly,
all downstage posing, to be sure,
not watching, not the way they looked at him,
not rapt and bold and senseless;
not like poor Narcissus, no,
caught up cold within his fatal gaze,
not at all, oh no.
They never knew he watched.
He must not lose himself in their plain sight,
could not lose himself,
they could not see him seeing.
He was more clever than that, he thought.
They were but the mirror,
reflecting, quick, the flash
of all his emptied art.

And where then might he turn?
There was not space enough to be
in the midst of the new emptiness.
Surely not the exit door, not yet;
not that undiscriminating light;
not that undirected clamor
brooking no silence, no graceful stop.

How might he own all that—
The indifferent stares
that would not recognize nor linger?
How might he hold those emptied eyes,
command such casual vision
to all his well-tuned verities.

Where, oh where to turn?
If only there were mirrors cast within,
if only he might satisfy himself
without resort to any art,
without regifting his whole world at large;
if only he could see the way they saw,
simple and with clarity.

Just for the moment,
moments like this,
when lights were faded
to their shadow homes on high;
with every echo and alarm
yet resonant, reprising absent charms.

Friday, January 31, 2020


by Steve King
© 2020 All rights reserved

I have a favored window.
It draws the light
in tones I wish to see.

It gathers birdsong
from the depths of dawn,
and spills my dreams
upon the evening lawn.

There may be other windows
I might use.

Even rooms without a view.

But here I’ll stay to celebrate,
and ever more to muse.

 A new poem for the 55

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

Your speaking moves more than the air

by Steve King
© 2020 All rights reserved

Your speaking moves more than the air, it seems.
I am, with every murmur, shaken too,
transported always where your will requires,
my wishes, resonant at every turn,
attend the lingering strains of your desire.

Much stronger than the weight of loud command,
your musings will demand obedience.
You know that I am helpless to ignore,
and every instant, as I lie in wait,
my urgent station sighs aloud for more.

Suspended like a mote in dim moonlight,
my substance cedes to rapt imaginings,
and, shedding every motive of my own,
I fall upon the pleasures you might bring,
awash, enfolded, no bright charm deferred,
to search again the truth of all your words.

For Writers' Pantry #3 : Poets and Storytellers United 

Sunday, January 5, 2020


by Steve king
All rights reserved

I trace the word, it becomes real
I breathe it to the world
and it is me
as a wind
sounding to the vaults of the earth
to stir a light within my every sense

I say and it is so
embracing now the distant things
even to the sun
brings them now to me
and I will now possess one meaning more

Dark air excites
and the quelled leaves
and the grasses
Each stone on the mountain
pebbles in the valley
waters will not then be still

I cannot know and will not care
who else may feel or see or know
or who would scoff or smile sly

And do not shrink from declination
or designs of their desires

How may I shrink from a new truth
the truth’s effect
the truth’s intent
that keeps me for an object
the light of truth
the truth of light
that even lamps the catacomb
that shall inscribe the stars

Tuesday, December 17, 2019

As I Consider

by Steve King
All Rights Reserved

As I consider how I’ve sought for love
And found it so, only to seek again,
There comes that moment to deny all sense
When emptiness descends upon the heart
With doubt my spirit never would intend.

No peace may gather then, although one waits
For any hint of surety to rise,
And, caught upon the tides that gather life,
Those memories which pass for life revive.
And every station that my heart has known
Returns to claim a moment as before.

Though forfeit now, their beat is ever clear
To tell how dreams shall never sing as true,
How every hope that stalks the bright Abyss
Unearths old endgames posed once more as new,
And how old love forever shall conspire
To scatter embers out from phantom fire.

Tuesday, February 5, 2019


© 2019 Steve King
All rights reserved

So now I am that widow guy,
pressed in these thoughts like widow’s weeds,
come near to end of time, it seems;
so near to end of days, must seem to all.

There are yet days.
Time is not stilled,
nor are the dreams undone,
to hang like heavy husks
across the fallen backdrop
of an endless, empty night,
a million miles to see.

And memory,
a pretty picture now,
but strange, imperfect, an unfinished thought,
where every echo plays
without its grounding harmony,
songs of siren sorcery,
promise unfulfilled,
and choruses of silence
that linger, stranger still.

A new poem for Open Link Night at

Thursday, December 13, 2018

I'd hoped that it might seem as one

by Steve King
©2018  All rights reserved

I’d hoped that it might seem as one,
that each new treasure of intent
would gather inward every charm,
alone to each new moment then,
without beginnings, without end.

The issue of unsettling dreams
would scuttle back beneath the lees,
the tolling of uncertainty
displaced by melodies begun.
Desires one never knew to spend
might seize such moments to contend.

Yet every doubt shall resurrect
to seed new dreams and break amends,
undoing all prospective notes,
to quell new dawns with clouded suns.
And all invention soon erased
by tides of tears that need not wait
for virgin moons to call them out,
far wishes glinting there, dark stars.

            The resting place of all appeal
            is quiet soon and battened fast,
each unrecounted mood abates
to where silence must congregate,
the words gone still to mend a peace,
and linger always out of reach.

And all that was important then
seems sunk to nothingness

A new poem for the D'Verse Open Link Night

Tuesday, July 31, 2018

I would be ready

I would be ready, should it come tonight.
I wait upon all ends, as do we each,
have swept my mind of all moveable fears,
and tried to pierce a veil of fair unknowns.
I am impatient with the magic now,
have slipped the tether of old ritual
and left to other arms the shield of faith,
to feel at last the depth in every night
and sense the murmur that a new felt wind
inflects upon old spirits who will hear.

I watch while every dusk enfolds the world
within an unknown realm, myself half-seen
and half-seeing, now here, now there, now gone,
alike some shallow isle whose trace appears
but briefly in the movement of great tides.
My visions cannot capture all I see,
nor words translate the things I come to know.
And while old mysteries will not abate,
I wait upon no supernality.
For only I attend upon these times,
alone to every instant, as must be;
and every hard-felt limit that is found
records at least an impulse to break free,
to try this darkness, sometimes kindle light,
’til rest shall fall, like mist upon the night.

A new poem for Imaginary Gardens

Thursday, April 19, 2018

We tarried that first night

©2018 Steve King
All rights reserved

We tarried that first night upon the sands
and glimpsed of glinting waters that upheld
the sky and the unnumbered stars.
Stars so many I was blind to all.

Strange things I tried to say,
then silence so that none might come amiss.
There surely would be time for words
when dreams had come to pass,
just not quite then.

Never time for dreams;
nor for uncanny orisons,
which none inclined to hear.
And never time to understand
those spirits once so near to us,
that sang from everywhere.

Confusions reigned aplenty,
seeming without cause or cure
to ease my wonder at the way
we found our way from star-lit shores
and got ourselves to here.

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

I will not criticize

© 2018 Steve King
All rights reserved

I will not criticize for your half-truths.
Of our mean differences, say what you will
so it brings peace.  I shall not ask beyond
the looming limits of my disbelief.
The times have left us still, with only hope
to take the seat of dreams that would repair.
Subsume to silence, and I’ll join you there.

Friday, October 27, 2017

To See

©  Steve King  2017
All rights reserved

To see.
Such distractive sense.
The eye goes everywhere
there is a movement,
or that unsought touch,
or faint reflective answers
in another’s distant voice.

Always something here
to hold a moment and mind.

Yet still impossible to spy
the one who masquerades as me
in all that waiting world
where these fool scenes unwind.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Sonnet Six

© 2017 Steve King
All rights reserved

I don’t know what there is to write of love,
though others fill such pages quite with ease.
I can’t distill all meanings as I please,
describe sensations which are true enough
to colonize all realms of thought.  I pause
at each astonishment that visits me,
and every unsought thrill that comes to be,
and never work to wonder of their cause.

All sly analogies escape my care,
and each coquettish fancy that occurs
belies the feeling that ought only stir
in truest commerce with the heart’s affairs.

            In grand comparisons I will not delve,
            for love should seem like nothing save itself.

Friday, September 29, 2017

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 

Thursday, September 14, 2017

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

Friday, September 8, 2017


© 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.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Sonnet Five: I watch and wait

© 2017 Steve King
All rights reserved

I watch and wait patiently for the sun,
and moments of forgetting then begun;
this bitter starlight cannot now redeem
an interregnum of confining dreams.
Old spirits are fled far and leave no trace,
no outlines to impress on shadowed space,
and though my pausing will not urge reward,
I’ll hold to what I pray shall be restored.
An undertow of hope thus sets my course,
and I must drift upon the dawning force,
to gather each small blessing that abides,
and cling to meanings cast upon new tides.
Emergent then, as from a numbing sleep,
so once again to sing, again to weep.

A new poem for the Poetry Pantry

Thursday, July 27, 2017

I am old now...

© Steve King 2017
All rights reserved

I am old now, often older than I seem,
with new strangeness and a certain sense
that springs not only from unfolding years.
But this is all of my own view,
some inner seeing that reflects
no proper light from anywhere,
nor even any scene
that some other might see true.

The mirror in the hall holds far out of my sight;
the window too, where in a lapse of careless ease,
I might again behold the sudden ghost,
more true to every age, anchored in the pane,
clinging on a slender veil of inconstant opacity,
its form playing a noiseless rhythm,
searching yet for convenient repose
and any field of uncontested peace.

I piece together puzzles made of clouds
that shudder, fly upon the least of winds;
stir worlds within the orb of the unblinking cocktail glass,
and watch as visions stream, each along its way;
savor every expectation,
and the pull of all intentions,
that the lingering claim of conscience
shall not long outlast.

In the reach of bottomless light
the world seems empty of all things
except the deepened treads of time,
a universe enforcing balance
of all things I might have sought
and everything the heart tried to deny,
with point enough to serve tendentious retrospect,
and the pull of all latent desire,
even moment by moment;
for though no certain future is assigned,
I’ll take my leave to wager a good bet,
thinking every new-lived instant
gives a life to each impatient hope,
and fortifies all gentle conjurings.

Somewhere distant I recall
the portrait I alone was meant to see,
itself enough to capture any age.
And there it is:  somewhat a stranger now,
as any onetime friend might sometime be;
its lines still not so fully formed,
somewhat in haste conceived;
the eyes with what might pass for surety,
the naive brow an unmarked map
that cannot not be so now.
And though I must approve faint shades,
and take on faith that these have shown me fair,
I yet must note each errant stroke
and smile at untoward slips of shadow
that a keener artist would have striven to repair.

There roams in the dark tower,
like condemned kings and captive partisans,
a mix of ill contented thoughts,
contending for a single crack of light,
or a strain of gaiety singing far upon midnight,
almost unknowing now the graces of such leisure,
but still not quite reduced
to settling for the moments that incline
to the inviting void,
which alone must mitigate all cares.

I wonder at all things unsaid,
and of comforts yet unmet,
and of late strangnesses
that reasoned contemplation cannot cure.
Unsettled loves are gathered in a distant dream,
removed from every heart,
a far mirage that fades on every dawn,
posing as the last sum of desire.

Now must I cease these wanderings.
Each glimpse unfolds, that others might ensue,
and every view will further lead
until the thread I clutch unwinds in whole,
that my next thought would drift on its own airs,
so soon to slip from every moor,
without the charms of once familiar light,
to dance with dreams that dress a darker night.

 A new poem for the dVerse open night link