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.





 

A little Wile a Little While

 
 
A Little While, A Little While
 A LITTLE while, a little while,
 The weary task is put away,
 And I can sing and I can smile,
 Alike, while I have holiday.
  
  
 Where wilt thou go, my harassed  heart
 What thought, what scene invites thee now
 What spot, or near or far apart,
 Has rest for thee, my weary brow?
  
  
 There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,
 Where winter howls, and driving rain;
 But, if the dreary tempest chills,
 There is a light that warms again.
  
  
 The house is old, the trees are bare,
 Moonless above bends twilight's dome;
 But what on earth is half so dear--
 So longed for--as the hearth of home?
  
  
 The mute bird sitting on the stone,
 The dank moss dripping from the wall,
 The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
 I love them--how I love them all!
  
  
 Still, as I mused, the naked room,
 The alien firelight died away;
 And from the midst of cheerless gloom,
 I passed to bright, unclouded day.
  
  
 A little and a lone green lane
 That opened on a common wide;
 A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
 Of mountains circling every side
  
 .
 A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
 So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
 And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
 Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
  
  
 That was the scene, I knew it well;
 I knew the turfy pathway's sweep,
 That, winding o'er each billowy swell,
 Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.
  
  
 Could I have lingered but an hour,
 It well had paid a week of toil;
 But Truth has banished Fancy's power:
 Restraint and heavy task recoil.
  
  
 Even as I stood with raptured eye,
 Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
 My hour of rest had fleeted by,
 And back came labour, bondage, care.
  
  
 Emily Bronte
 

A Dream in St. Valentine




A Dream in St.Valentine.
 
When morning capture the strength of noble range
That beams over the red and blue coloured sky
My dream lies in my labouring chest
Now drowned by the mounted wind
Like a breath fringed with fire.
 
 
The maze of every bells from unrested motions
That never made you sad before
Now calling in my aching spirit
From ancient Gods in greyish beard
And long white dresses
Returning from thousand years of war.
 
 
My hope of unaccomplished years
Should keep you safe, but still so much remains
That never cried or emptied your bright eyes
Before time in riper buds will come
And you yourself as the rose of beauty
Stay high above all evil, and frosty leaves should die.
 
 
Now in this early motion of my new day
I paint a prisoner behind the wall of glass
That keep her longing for many years and days
When fresh repair enchants the broken trust
Back to summer thoughts and newly perfumed scent,
resembling the young fragrance of your smile.
 
  
Now for your starlit eyes so strongly alive,
What more can be said and what more can be praised
That beauty of your childish appearance glow.
And Then may I hide my shyness, and tell
That in the deep of those eyes, my love forever dwell.
 
 
February 2021 Copyright kc.
 
 
 
 

Winter Time


Winter Time
 
Inspired by the Snowy Queen that keep my company
During the night.
When all the treasure of our lusty days
Lies still in the prison of my mind
That captured the light, the night, and the day
Now buried under the frosty ground
Just waiting for The King of Winter to arrive.
 
 
I am no Queen myself, only a figure as a stony cliff
A mountain of the strongest nature
A hard and secure building in noble granite
I safely wear the head I was born with
Fetched with chains to the ground, but easily canter
Never missing my steps, my foreseen and labourers Hight.
 
And here, from now I must work,
From inside of the high mountain
Crossing the stones in the flames of the igneous rock
And from the deep of the planet’s mantel of crust.
Slowly rising my head towards the morning sun
I am falling apart but growing on the ground
As an image of the three goddesses, of Music
Poetry and Song.
 
Febraury 2021 kc
 
 

I Know A Wind

 
 
  
 I Know A Wind
  
 I know the wind of wisdom and how to give you wit
 And in return the crown of a King your heart will fit
 The lovely gaze of your eyes, filling joy and happiness
 And music for your ears that will last 
 for more than hundred years.
  
 I know another wind with lustrous colour of gold
 That the hideous winter in time will be gone
 The time we know as a never resting friend
 I paint on my window until the ice and snow 
 Forever end.
  
 I know a third wind of shimmering stars
 Embroidering my life with great excitement 
 The sunbeams to dress my sad heart
 Making my breath blowing faith and hope
 For all the power that dried my tears
 And A new day to start.
  
 Copyright January 2021
 kc.
  
  
  
   

A Miracle









A Miracle.
 
I can´t find the right words
Those words that swirling around in my mind
Leaving a picture of what I´ve seen
And what I today have learned as a fact
Fast Running in my blood and my veins.
Without any tendency to stop.
 
Here I stand, on the shore to eternity
Waiting, these last few days of the year
Soon gone with the wind and buried
In the mortal clouds,
falling like the flowers I planted for you.
 
Looking around myself, seeing nothing
Listening, but all is still and silent
Not a sound from the passing birds
No growing of the sprouting seeds
I left last summer among the weeds.
 
And I was told to believe in miracles.
I have no God creating miracles or wonders
No, my lonely path creates its own miracles
Of wonders in life and about life
When I wander among the wet pebbles
and from the ancestor’s footsteps in the sand.
 
And how would It be possible to believe
When we get punished at least every 100-years
Of a deadly weapon, war, epidemics or sickness  
the Black Death, laming, cutting off our intelligence
Erasing a whole mankind from the earth.

Just in time to take the darkness in your arms.
 
That is a Miracle.
 
.

If No Tomorrow comes





If No Tomorrow Comes.
 
Time, of the unguarded moment
In where I live, still unspoken.
No yesterday from now is gone
and doubtful is tomorrow.
Within the present and in this very happening
stay all my senses quiet, close and numb.
 
It’s Now, that Love is without reality
uncontrolled she is leading all my thoughts.
True is my Love today, and would forever be
if no tomorrow comes.
Expressing my constant and refined wishes,
in new and various words, of what in my
invention live.
 
It’s Now my burning sight is here
my heart is beating harder than ever before.
It’s Now I am leaving somebody, and
my mind is rescuing all immortal dreams.
Stopping the waves in the Sea from moving forward
laying still in the washed sand and white pebbles.
 
It’s Now that Love rejoint our destiny
reinstates thy bosom in my heart.
It’s Now she gives our silence a rich delighted tune
a tender feeling, with fragility, never disgraced
sealed with ornaments in vine
and wreathes in laurel romantically held.
 
It’s Now, I can perceive your trembling sighs
I can capture the glistening in your eyes.
To drink the poison that is prepared for me.
To kiss the palm of your soft hand.
And Now, in this unguarded but so inviting time
To just hold you close, while you for certain are mine.
 
 

And If No Tomorrow Comes.
 
©k.c.
 
Music “You are My Destiny” Ernesto Cortazar

You are my Poetry





You Are My Poetry!
 
Look at you, how you wear your long and silky hair
falling on your shoulder like a light collar in lace
Look at your contracted mind, hidden,
but to me a sheet in the book of your heart.
 
Look at you, with your forehead in deep wrinkles
that speak of the flames buried in your eyes
Look at you, so proud in your manner
when leaving me in thy young and lusty days.
 
Look at you, how fair your own esteem of perfection seems
and how you urge to satisfy the running time
Look at you, in your gentleness that dress your humble body
that hold you fast in your tightened palms.
 
Look at you, and your perfumed greed that trouble our senses
and in a courteous attentiveness creating treasure
On several strings.
Look at you, that also give me strength for tears and to cry,
and teaching me how easy it is to smile.
 
Look at you, and your distinguished, but sweet self
that always wishes the spring and summer to be mine
Look at you, being the tower of my golden height
the guardian when I slowly fall
And offering me all the needed signs.
 
 December 2020.kc,