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? 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.
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. 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.
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 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