Saturday, April 26, 2014


© 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

Sunday, April 20, 2014

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.


But not just yet, he said to me.

No. Not in winter.

A new poem for the Poetry Pantry 
Poets United 

Sunday, April 13, 2014

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

Monday, April 7, 2014

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