Into the Night

the perimeter of this
your ever-present light

status off stage
quo to the wings

Beatrice never knew
the architecture of time

be it lost in rhythms
or planted by limitations

all I can say is that
once you are there

the songs of it are gratis
it is the light that surrounds

all artistry of love
no matter the medium

into the night aloft
we go –

 

© K. James Ribble

A Eulogy of Time

Autumn lulls me
to sleep in anguish
residing by the river
of her fears this pumpkin
masked specter flows
beneath the breath
of a deleterious moon
its shadows coveting
the ground upon
which she walks
in a prophesy of time,
an integer of dread,
like pristine clocks
in a pettifog of
lubricity forming
makeshift mirrors
of the dead in the
oft forgotten motion
of bringing mountains
of apology to its own
vacant treachery of civility
like the verse of
vacillated prosody
it is cementitious
in its delight

 

© K. James Ribble

Lodestar

I am Carried in
by the flow of life

on a slipstream in
dreams razed in sighs

by Autumn’s uncharted
revelation here, in
this Now released

this insight resides
in its Occurrence

from clarity entrusted
To my memory

All those memories, those
Childhood Moments

Of all those people
that Passed my way

Even the faces of the
Children and the

Infinite lot of People upon
which the road is turning

the Road of our re-turn
Each, they too, shall pass

As so shall you –
As so shall I

 

© K. James Ribble

Synesthesia

I am in
a stasis
the limitless inertia of
your love
revealed
in supple decisions
in the rhetoric of heart
in simplicity of divinité,
the shimmering calm of fuchsine
aura, the flickering in the night
vectored by you
as if Venus sings to me (-in time-)
to the sweet sound of her light
becoming your vastness
astounding me in themes
of languid warmth
from beyond the light barrier
long, long before we began,
origins transforming
the zenith of who we are
as seminal beings
in a universe
learning how to love

 

© K. James Ribble

Gravity’s Prey

We change with the weight of time, our
sarcasm as a genealogy of repentance
lifting us to an-other gait toward redemption

and yet our words follow us, belonging
in ownership of Self relying only on now as,
a moment too soon, the flutter be-comes lost

like shifting sands aloft, foretold in
the breath of air, (which just sustains me)
I become this moment of elevation

a geometry of cynicism thrust against
the glare of my own honesty and in
that instance I am the flame of intention

 

© K. James Ribble

clarity reflecting

The moon is glib tonight
lost in its own thoughts
light shimmering
across this riverbank of lust

Transitory, her station lifts me
into her arms, carries me to a calmer
water just an arm’s length away
from my own awareness –

and so I reap the full weight of
what it is that I am seeing, my
own moment of clarity reflecting
the Self as I am at last, atoned.

 

© K. James Ribble

In the Portico of Dying

Summer has released me
into the arms of Autumn
surrendered by the shrinking
light of yesterday’s longing

as I place my hands into
a Mother Earth that cradles
me toward a new existence
aloft the portico of my dying days –

Please bury me again, sweet sun!
Bury me at a glacier’s length as time begins!
Like a leaf I fall to the furrowed soil,
my life begins anew in its fall to sorrow

Only this Moment’s time and place
denies the mystery of my monuments
to the Eros of my loving and feigns the
egregious light of day that succumbs to
the loss, the loss of all my sworn tomorrows

 

© K. James Ribble

Writing on the Wall

the last time we spoke
winter made notice of
white along the snowbound
hills of Vineyard Lake
where the trees, barren in
a frozen grip of silence,
bore the gold of September
as each leaf died when we
were still in love – my intuition,
frost made imminent as the
crisp and dying light of solstice,
knew our hearts would long for the day in
memory to purge this night’s moment –
and now, like the falling snow that
gathers in these hills with stillness,
our love departs each from the other
as a noon-day sun emerges
from these crying clouds

© K. James Ribble