My Nights are whispering voices






My Nights are whispering voices
of unspoken words
My mind sleeping, so still in silent thoughts
My heart, a dull bearer of evil and defence
and in a hurry, in a rushing speed of desire
that grow and grow in every pace.

Ambitions and eager forcing my steps
That also make the time to slowly dwell
to where I trace without excuse and regrets
In perfect love, and in love being made
and raised by youth that last to the end.

And here I host for what shall be your delight
for what I can add to your trembling lips
and your shyness, that bow in front of me
a barrier, hungering for attention
that I lay light upon, to faithfully shine.

Compressed are my lips of the Nights
Dead, the unspoken words from whispering voices
My mind illuminating thoughts out of dreams
My heart bouncing and rushing, seeking in desire,
a leap in the dark and for what come to pass
from a barrier of shyness, hungering for attention
Now faithfully shining in the Night.

June 2019 ©k.c.


	


	



			
				


			

			
Why?
		
	
	

		

WHY?

The literally sense of existing 
Born in the summer, 
That never prevailed
And I was losing my mind 
In the shimmer of the blue night
Trying to reach you in dreams 
That I never understood.

Oh, what it hurts, when I was there
And hurts so badly when I wasn´t
I wrote that I love you 
On a piece of granite 
Close to the gravedigger’s mind.
In many decades I recall my prayers
With stiff fingers, naked on my paper
I wrote the same words, repeatedly.

And why?

July 2021 k.c.







	


	



			
				


			
				


			

			
Happy Easter
		
	
	

		

Winter to Spring
Irvin W. Underhill

Did not I remember that my hair is grey
    With only a fringe of it left,
I’d follow your footsteps from wee break of day
    Till night was of moon-light bereft.

Your eyes wondrous fountains of joy and of youth
    Remind me of days long since flown,
My sweetheart, I led to the altar of truth,
    But then the gay spring was my own.

Now winter has come with its snow and its wind
    And made me as bare as its trees,
Oh, yes, I still love, but it’s only in mind,
    For I’m fast growing weak at the knees
.
Your voice is as sweet as the song of a bird, 
    Your manners are those of the fawn,
I dream of you, darling,—oh, pardon, that word,
    From twilight to breaking of dawn.

Your name in this missive you’ll search for in vain,
    Nor mine at the finis, I’ll fling,
For winter must suffer the bliss and the pain 
In secret for loving the spring.

Irvin W. Underhill was born in Port Clinton, Pennsylvania, on May 1, 1868.
 He is the author of Daddy’s Love and Other Poems (A.M.E. Book Concern, 1916



	


	



			
				


			

			
The Woman at my side
		
	

	

		











The woman at my side.

Where did you fly? The life of my day
That I caught in the early morning breeze
  where dry and withered leaves moving  
In the rough stream,
 forcing in bubbling water, like my feelings,
coming at the surface with the wind
and a bouncing heart in flaming emotions. 


 A poet I am, living in myself, 
where all magical creation starts
 all energy, all courage, invented by myself,
all truth and all mistakes born on this way,
where I tread in the trace of my heirs, long ago.
 

No borders, no rules are a force, in my existence
While freedom is the stability and my trust
 to grow and not to shrink after a total disruption
while my heart still bouncing like a flame  
and my mind has the power to defend myself.


This is the woman, standing beside me 
Honouring me, building me from the inside 
with her wit a presence of devotion,
 a place called home, but a short moment of nothing
and a never-ending hunger. 

She is Looking at me, taking me in her arms

March 2021.
Copyright kc.