Like

Like prompters in the
Street-Corner-Gutter-Box
I move in rhythms all my own,
Intercept myself and
Succeed shadows of Spring
Like the acquaintance welcome
Of an old friend.
Like the shadow brush
On my window sill
It’s a wonder’s moment:
 Love;
In time,
 winter-born
 with no poetry
 in rhetoric bliss

I’m like canyon canons
In rhythms all my own.

© K. James Ribble

Quenched

I glimpse the magnificence of your memory
With unwanted present day awareness
As if the thought of reuniting once again
Obstructs the view of my future
Like a commoner among royalty. . .

This windfall of emotion cannot conceal
Any ordinary mention of love nor can it
Catch the mastery of my heart’s only notion:
To memorize forever this taste of you
Inside the callousness of times repentant core . . .

The epic boldness of my dream reveals
A light far too orderly and crisp within
The senescent pallor of a day gone by on
The edge of all that I had hoped for
Quenched by the harshness of my own choices . . .

Rather it relinquishes its vision to the delicacy of hope
Where I am fraught with heaviness for heavens
Standard humbled by headlines bearing a day
Just like weather forecasting
My remaining lifetime of healing and rebirth.
 
© K. James Ribble

Only You

I have found that it is only you
Who knows who I really am
Inside that cathedral of my heart
Where it always rains in the south of summer

It is only you who knows the fullness of my character
Even more than I know myself
Brushing past the allegory and alliteration
Noting all the inflammatory purging of pneumatic emotions

Please preserve that memory of who I was remembering
My constant struggle to regain what I have lost
Spilling past the Carthage of the carnage inside of myself
Relinquishing only the distrust of clarity too prudent to be wry

For when the time comes to reconsider who I am
I know you will preserve this memory with great care
As if to recoil on instinct the touching of the flame
So quick am I to shelter all that I have become
 
© K. James Ribble

She States Her Case

She states her case in terms of culture
Defines the day in a tenuous tone of color
For which there are no known names
And associates her womanly prowess and
Femininity akin to the way in which
Tennis stars rank their world standings
Although no one could know this just
By being inside the sphere of her hold

I, on the other hand, say what I wish for
Not what I mean, take meanings the way
Most people take aspirin for a hangover and
Grip the awareness of my masculinity the way
A dancer must reach for his partner, the sheer
Synchronicity of movement dictating its necessity –
Then move outward from this point to
A realm I can only call the Hall Of My Own Undoing . . .


© K. James Ribble

House Made of Dawn Light

Songs of Laughter in this
House Made of Dawn Light

Where we run with the light
Feel its Joy — its Life

As if we are water pouring
Out of ourselves, catching the sun

I follow myself
Watch my Light become Time

Board the ship of my Heart
Sundial on the Deck of Abandon

Now Time becomes light becomes
Heart becomes myself and I ride

Into the Day into my Home
Into this House Made of Dawn Light

© K. James Ribble

[Inspired by the music of Douglas Spotted Eagle]