LIKE I FLOWERED IN FRONT OF YOU. Air of a positive persistence, of confidence, of sweet repose. The sudden happening, I realized when smashing into my mind, entered as an unexpected guest in that burning evening, taught me the knowledge of myself the core of my being. You came from a mind flooded with images. You stumbled before me on my road on the very foundation of my life. The beats of your footsteps followed me, solemnly you touched my chin-bone like you knew me from before like I flowered in front of you. Quivering, you hold my delicate wrist stroke my patches of hair behind the ears and lifted kindly my face as for the time of the first kiss. Shudder seized me, so violently that I lost my balance and flicked the mind empty again in the overwhelming exposing gallantry. All what happened within me in that insane moment that presiding over the scene, and with a galloping inferiority I have to face and keep back, pushing it round the next corner passing a threshold and tell myself that this has never happened. Although, It did, and gently became the garment, that dressed my life devouring me, catching all my energy, sometimes burning, sometimes chilly, but always the aiming prism that set the glare in my eyes of the inexpressible compassion The Magic of Love and Life. ©k.c.
An Autumn Symphony A loudly drill, from the slowly greying willow tree Where the yellow billed nuthatch has been nesting for a short time, now leaving while the summer flies. The seeds of humankind now scattered Over the flat but prepared soil, Stay safe until the next upcoming season When the hot sun and water-flow open our closed core and be ready to grow. So am I now, like the richer people, Often carved in stone and of Seldom pleasure, or as my robe that Keeps my chest hardly closed for better purpose Of my imprisoned pride. The morning mist, the many shadows in grey Have many shades to lend Where In those your treasures would be safe But an instant lock is not for long, And behind;, Your substance your beauty being unfolding, triumphing in worthiness for being there, placed as the seed in the early prepared soil then growing in all the different shades And in love and hope. C copyright 2020 kc,
The Only You. Poem no 3 in The Verse Cycle TO YOU In this moment, the day is just about to break In fresh numbers, number all your grace and my tired spirit bearing no more harms, the smell of your aura now closely attending bringing endless joy, that I embrace, saving in my bosom, keeping in my arms. My longing palms grow red and sore from dropping tears in darkish blue drizzling down my blushing cheek, I gladly would remove as the morning dew and wasted blood will fully vanish when pleasure allows a fervent reverie, anew. In that, my made up, and ceremonious dream with the sensation of a wild, primitive origin I found You, while My pen has formed thy nobility, thy high forehead, thy brave mouth, thy proud walk and straight shoulders, that placed you on thy solid ground. You live within me, feeling all my thoughts You paint my dreams in winter skies that blend my sight In summer green, the windy travel of dried flowers, the grass, in where our humble fondling lives and our silent breath, our fragility in budding love rise our tenderness, trembling…Our lips. Moments of raptures, fast dying, fading but you do know them, in every shade, The dreams, the obvious record of your memory the journey of love, reflected in your face tempting me to wondrous achievements and I drop my eyes, blushing totally dazzled by the Only You. February 2018 Copyright kc.
So Many flowers were born And so many blushes unseen frozen smiles, lay stiff and cold repressed of their noble breath a waste of sweetness, a mute quench of ingenuous shame. Their names, their faces are spelled by an unlettered Muse by a passing tribute of an elegy, a shapeless voice pleasing, but anxiously resigned to fill that unwonted forgetfulness. In some breast thy spirit will grow inquire thy destiny thy fate for what will cross your strength your woeful hope, your pray forlorn, buried under the Stone overgrown with aged thorns. The earliest of days, still come the latest of the nights still linger with hasty steps approaching the honour’s neglected voice, the provoking dust of silence, soothing the deaf ears, and the blind eyes. Copyright kc From the Verse Cycle TO YOU.