I used to live in LA
Pasadena, Alhambra, Central –
I could walk to Korea Town.
Lived in San Diego too,
Coronado, Ocean Beach, Golden Hill –
The Silver Strand was my beach of choice though
As much as I loved Redondo.
The Strand’s position south of the NAS is an honest line
Geology’s trick appropriated from the Pleistocene Epoch
Lending the landscape like an open sore to be healed
By waters warmed to the beat of a California Sun
Where each wake laps its walking rhythms into virgin sand . . .
It’s as if there was a covenant between them,
Endowing all signs of life with a glaze of gold
Beneath an ocean floor of deep blue love.

© K. James Ribble


I am open to you.
Like warm pockets of water 
In the ice of Superior,
– and you look at me –
Suspended from access and weight as
I become Admission to this moment:
Like a Capillary of time’s aperture,
Free-falling toward your light, after-glow
Of your own expansion, as your essence
Cartwheels among a thousand dreams
Into waves         of us on
           the shoreline of Emerges 
Onto your own Shoulder of Orion 
Salted water on a fresh abduction
Entrusting the majesty of love 
To the Open sea of us, 
So There are no other gateways – 
Beside the one I walk towards
                            Exit into your breathing,
                            Into your eyes.
© K. James Ribble



Rushing sideways into my own puzzlement,
The recondite aftertaste of a déjà vu above my head,
I peer, snake-like, into the mathematical equivalent of
Boolean’s theorems, seeking an account to self-inflection.
Like a lost record I find the whim of neuron, cannot explain
This impulse view where mind’s a category-five misdemeanor,
The force of it catches fire just alongside my purview of Heaven –
Even as I write the logic and logos of it, never once does it unfold.
Familiar frequencies of a past known only to me recur and,
Again, there is my unforsaken love upon a fallow bed of loss
Compiling the desert in all its expanse to the oblivion of
Finding you, my love, the pieces of our love upon a lap of sorrow.
Straddled across the you and I of us, finding how incredibly
Lucky I’ve been, still – there is no replacement for that time –
It belongs to us, this immutable moment afforded to you and I:
This is all I ever wanted with you, for you – as I am found
Inside this universe of love unaccounted for – just you and I.

© K. James Ribble


Caught the back of a dream
Overlay of memory, vision-ephemeral

A Dissipation, like fog, the dream
Image revealing its mystery right

Before mind’s eye, gone just before I
Can tell the Truth of what I’ve seen

So I become quiet . . . listening
The vision lasting only milli-seconds

Recalling Enough to know that I’d
Seen the trace of that moments’

Face appearing like the last
Frames of film through a

Projector the flutter of light, a
Flood of memory that was meant

To inform my heart that
You are still within me

Harbored deep inside an unknown
Crest of time, floating before me

Like light that dances in-
Between shadow, soft but untouchable,

Unspoken, out of reach of you
Yet find I am still drenched

Deep within, you are still
Deep within me, only memory remains.

© K. James Ribble

The DNA of Us

I sought Correlation and forged a sympatico within
A boundless hostility unknown even to myself.
This anger, tempered with regret, unleashed a season
Of the coldest winter in the midst of Summer’s stare –

Callous, unafraid – still the words pushed through, (though
Left dormant inside recklessness,) like time caste aside
From my own perdition, aghast in the steppe of Reason.
An agony away from internment confounded by a reign of tears,

I fought a galaxy of despair unknown to me, scraping the tomb
Of all that I had lost, an escalating monument to redemption set against
A sky of rivers that all lead to you, the floating rhythm of your face,
The sigh of your smile, the seconds of your breath –

I lead into you [now] before our time has come, into expanse of sunlight
Yet unspoken, castaway inside your eyes where I become lost, found but
Isomorphic to the same image of you before my own eyes, purely
Captured by our differences in sameness
Across an untouched horizon of fire.
© K. James Ribble

The Chaldean


They were images, phantoms blue like Negril
A synesthesia of sound, color, and the
Syncopated smells of lilac and jasmine – all
Forming the warm Symbol of you
I long to hold.  


I want to tell you, as if I were a Chaldean sensing,
Poetry written is the physical transference
Of the spirit-world to us here on earth – and I become
Aware that it is our ability to Listen that makes
Cogent equal to the depth of your own willingness


To release perception, to un-marry those thoughts
Of who you are and just for a moment consider –
I am who I am – but there are symbols that surround me
That also have bearing of who I am.  It is this conduit that


Is my voice as I speak, as I listen to all that is around me.


© K. James Ribble

The Gist

“On the gist of the daytime fleecing of thought vs. writing, I conjured up an absolute soup of consciousness, dimly lit vagueness on the outskirts of time.  Basic, inept and diligent attempts have been, are and will be made in the morass of autonomy frequently tapped for sense and source of authenticity, never fully revealing the recipe of choice.  This is not to say that all is not lost on the confluence of gravity and prose.  I myself have often visited these realms with dubious intentions never once forgetting that it is I who must substantiate the course, bring life into otherwise lifeless memory and track down all beginnings of idea to the One, the Ultimate presentation of literary excellence.  How to gauge this elusive talent?  Is there a baseline of intellect which harbors such a metric?  Can these things be left to the unforeseen conclusions of Art and Beauty?  Moreover, is there a common ground upon which all writing is judged by its reader?  I believe these and other even more relevant questions and their answers lie just outside the equinox of virtue, that morality that brings forth words like honor, loyalty, vision, piety and truthfulness.  Upon these words I gauge my life, my thought my ever present regard for that striving of the divine in my life, my time in which I am here to express and ask the question, ‘Who am I?’”
3-11-03 12:23 AM EDST
Ringwood, NJ


I’ve been disengaged from time
Aloft in the cirrus of thought,
Outliers given triumph over
Managed expectations. 

Frayed, I see thousands of miles
Ahead of my own ascension
Charted into Life before my eyes,
The apprehension leading to trusted

Waters on intuitive navigation. 
That same Incredulous sky asks
Indignant questions against stark
Memories malignant with cause –

Yet here I remain alone, as if untouched,
Refer only to the touchstone of
An obsequious self-landscape where
Oxygen is thin at ground elevation, my
Abandonment breaching into starlight and revelation.

© K. James Ribble


I’ve plunged headlong into you
On the longest note of music
I sing your smile, your stunning
Crescendo of all that you Are and I am
Fraught with the tempo of your eyes,
As I embark on one more sequence of your laughter –
Even as I utter the smallest notes of your look my way.
I am lifted towards you in every adagio
Of your soft skin your eyes of limitless aria

And take shelter inside the quiet
Of every phrase of
your shoulders
your breasts
your every fold of you
Like honey across an endless ocean
Of your song, a canticle, undone, in every way.


© K. James Ribble