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