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.


An Autumn Symphony

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

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 Forlorn

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.