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.



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.


Without A Motive


Is it true what have been said?
That faith creates the finest looks
That beauty grows from winter trees
From icy moors and stiffened seas.

And is it true that the bare branches
Have caught all life in the early buds
And young days of shining smiles 
give pure mirth and spiritual light.

Can I trust my sleeping mind?
In these so early moments 
That tender, but flickering flames
From my gloomy windows, move
Like gracious but shivering signs.

And in my options of accepted audit
will I hereby leave for more a day?
To give an unbroken substantial limit 
To find itself and in that, thyself to stay.

Copyright 13th of March  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.