I’ve found the yarrow mountains

they sleep with me tonight

among the stars like gilded

diamonds, exhaled contemporaneous

in a sea of capstone blue –

I’ve been mentioned

among their peaks and rifts

the mountains have concealed

my name between their ever-ending

retreat into the canyons’ bosom

of time in elevations of grace

and the tectonics of heart where

I feel home tonight with you,

dreaming of just Being

without hesitation, efficacious in

these acts of life, upon this stage

written from the sweat of my ancestors

made current by the light of my descendants

enfolded now in this instance of

profound consciousness to a place

I’ve walked to for so long, as I

cross time blushed calcareous

on a new pathway, calm in heirloom pinks,

emergent to the love I seek to find you.



© K. James Ribble

The Calendar

Staring at the wall calendar
I see uncharted territory

my life in a vast overture
of unknowns like finding sea

glass in the frequency of hours
fading on the shores of lost time –

In the distance I see a
vision outlined in counted

numbers of chance and risk,
a viewing of the open plain

and the horizon cast in thunder,
a sweep of clouds pouring rain

on an endless plateau bearing
the view of uncertainty, emerging

from the cirrus that forms the
sum of my life – but in a way that

powers me forward no longer
counting for the gravity of fear

or aversion to risk – So my time
here becomes a founding, a patient

regard for sacred promises made
to myself long ago – as the calendar

keeps it’s infinite future I begin again
as witness to an understanding:

my time remains the art and practice
of Love – learning to love myself as I am

and loving you in the gift we call Life.


© K. James Ribble

The Blue of Forever

A haste of sun-drenched shores
quiver from your infinite love,
fills the cumulus of time
In a stand still of air and light –
a motionary tribute to the sounds
of your heart, in subtle movements
of longing, quenched by your
Dreaming, forming the fragrance
of water, air and the rains of Spring
in a candor of our glistening romance
the incarnate reflection of memory
becomes the sunlit blue of our forever.


© K. James Ribble

Without, I Am

Before I knew you, your
breath within my eyes

an inhale of your heart
that forms a façade of light

in words left unspoken
falling to us in generations

placed in edifice
of stone and stripe

the glare of western light,
as distraction in deflection

placed blithely at our feet
of these glass mountains

as reminiscence forming
our memory tipped in

the lace and veil of night,
from the very songs of you

your melody washed in the
morning light of Innocence

borne of yesterday’s youth
forged in the pain of living

matured by the grief of

now revealed in a longing,
these lost years of I

vaporous in the corridors
of my time without me,

jeremiad as the
cedars of Huron where

our ancient mythos
enshrines us dreaming,
long before our time.


© K. James Ribble


The languor of sunrise
strikes me found
calling to lost segments
of a dream diminished
now discursive as
the platinum-grey of memory
becomes the afterwards, garrulous
in the current, fluid
waters of life –

a taciturn instance this
          flow of my heart
now swells with the
         summer’s silken winds

cantilevered & married
in a tempest of thought
bearing precious thunder
rolling like a
godhead of my days
a variant ilk
scorched in love
(so much love)

that I dream awake,
in the flowering of my
own life’s loving,
the crimson blues
aloft a star-filled sky
hung as light-trains
in a rear view mirror
of every decade
to every Now.

© K. James Ribble


Your hands, your light,

the sustenance of
my heart
as me giving way

Arriving as vapor
in visceral transparency

placing me
in a stave
of our cadence

a bold-flow choice
viewed behind

patterns of
hydrangea blues,

like a melody motioning me
in a cantabile of chord

and movement,
keys the pitch

smooth as acres of eternity,
riding damask waves of

trusting decisions
in a knowing
in a razing of

all pedantry and ego
with sweet dollops of lucidity –

like remembering the
smells of August in a
New York City of 1988.


© K. James Ribble

Moment’s Passing

There are certain
reflections of time, past
the way of seeing,
like the congruency of
an orrery, the possibilities
obliged to the fruit
of all my labors
marked in each
moment passing in predation,
like a compendium of ifs
adjacent to the fall
of my heart
by the echoes of regret
in decibels of
callous modernity –
this universe of fog and
inquiry causes me
to stop, take pause –
and it is in this second
where re-cognition begins
as the daylight flailing
in a long day’s reckoning



© K. James Ribble

Snow Moon

You come to me

like the sound of rain in summer
a faint rhythmicity in your chaos

almost circadian

like the way an audience of memory
crosses downstage chiasmatic, full of life

like the snow moon

grown gibbous tonight in time she
didn’t mention all the ways she has me

in her silver haven

where life made leading the course of living
our path reside in a great loop of time

across the campaign of crying

in a matte effect of forgone emotion
recalling all the ways, all the sweet ways

that I love you


© K. James Ribble

The Boneyard of Grieving

mournful light shadows
the intolerance of occlusion

the canyon pinks of an open sky
now calm, soothes the lonely

cloudwaters reflected in the
soft drone of complacence

their subversion to vagrant
standing as piquant yet alone &

trophic, like a sentinel milled
smooth to feel a man fallen

who, forlorn & forgotten,
never asked for forgiveness

yet all my brothers walked at
the boneyard of this grieving

their own lands accepting tears
before the air could receive

their grounding, making time
appear in dilation lost long

in the vapors of sorrow,
like rain pinning the circle

of dreams merged magnificent
inside their waking hours

© K. James Ribble


“We have lived upon this land from days beyond history’s records, far past any living memory, deep into the time of legend. The story of my people and the story of this place are one single story. No man can think of us without thinking of this place. We are always joined together.”

—Taos Pueblo (Tuah-Tah) elder / New Mexico History Museum

The Agony of Nature

There is an agony of nature, a
recovery to the bone of remiss

like recalling a dream
long after its impression

the light sews its legacy impounding
the moon in timber grays, coming to me

untold, unfolding the twilight of
recollection, then in the

remembrance of that moment,
befalling redolent in the gold

sinecure of arbitration,
vacuous as assassins in the

evening of love’s equanimity,
its splendor just beyond

recognition, forms a lost tableau
of silence like a yellow lotus
in the gilded light of memory


© K. James Ribble