Metrical
By Lonna Kingsbury
Awakened
By Lonna Kingsbury
Going to be late this morning
of course, forgot the phone
may as well relax and ponder
the stories oozing by
Mr. Mustache, he thinks he'll make it
suited-ego stanced
drumming nervous dashboard fingers
manicure enhanced
Other side great music blaring
the vetted mover ROCKS
plates privy to his vanities
eyes meet, a smile, and on
adjoining other shining hopefuls
snail pacing to the top
mull over ever-faithful homage
from stanchion to clouds
Sighting concertina carnage
crossing, shiver, wake
drive focus skyward on beyond
red hawking, gawking prey
Williamsburg
By Lonna Kingsbury
its climbing, striking contrast high above the fields
Only one this time . . . fleeing the adverse
incessant biped strangers' eyes straining to spot "Hawk".
John's house is . . .
gone.
Bulldozers squat on flattened ground.
Gone . . .
each
single vow
Gone . . .
each
silent hero
Gone . . .
each
chosen stand
Hunters' sounds surround us.
Dozer flags post caution -- circumventing trees.
Wild bamboo fared well. Ours died -- planted at the wrong time.
Others have been here -- wheels are gone from the wagon.
Steam-driven machines entreat -- too heavy to collect.
Stark, crusted monstrous skeletons lay cradled in the brush.
You shoulder your harness.
I harvest dried grasses.
Each marker waves good-bye.
As Ever
By Lonna Kingsbury
Sun and water
life and death
enemies and friends
gatherings and festivals
etched upon a skin
Long nights and their tellings
legendary might
powers of each talisman
etched upon a skin
Questioning abstractions
translucently begin
now as then
forever when
etched upon a skin.
Our Pioneers
By Lonna Kingsbury
Into the wood
beyond the brush
across the barren leaf
through sedentary masses
past moorings long retrieved
through solitary breachings
revisiting known truths
relentlessly empowered
the artist searches proof.
The Primitives
By Lonna Kingsbury
her beading
holds equal with his strength.
Following in his footsteps
she proudly bears his son.
Magical joys
of union
sing honest from her heart
heralding all
to revel
in honor to their gods.
Mrs. Anderson
From Chicago Prosaries
By Lonna Kingsbury
childhood circle. Outside, she knew rebellion, and finally pressed it past
that last grasped lone alternative -- she'd not be coming back. Evading
tearful tidings, engrossed by every truth -- she coveted her favorite class,
her passion, as she moved. Was she spewing poetry, with hand in air, no rest,
in retrospect, escaping, praying they'd be blessed?
Or was she mixing metaphors, holding quick
her breath with steadfast
self-deception that one soul would not rest in following the masters'
paths
nearer to the grail or know a light beseeching: follow now the trail.
Know truths beyond mere mortal acts, priceless
times of search. Know every
deemed imaginable nurturing of worth.
She'd taught her well, this favorite, and
here she stood aloof, a hood in
plastic leather-look, more cold than feeling cool. She'd miss her she
decided, while holding back the tears, allegories set aside, standing
back to
peer. Pre-grieving selfless goodness -- she never raised her eyes, at
one
with final exit bell, beheld her slip, and cried.
The Old Ones
By Lonna Kingsbury
Each leathered fold and crevice marked texture to his frame.
Firmly seated -- back to back -- within their barn -- still one
he works at what the man must do -- she muses at their plight.
both proving silent tribute their oneness still resides.
Way back when, remembering, she wasn't
quite so sure,
when days stood still forever, or so at least she thought.
In silence then, as now, he sat, with head cocked high or bent
(depending on the instance) nearly to his chest,
his arm outstretched, alone, and firm, draping false support.
She wondered at their singleness, questioning her choice.
She marvels at their first time, so very
long ago.
A tilt of head -- immediately -- she's young and wrapped in curls.
What was his name -- that silly boy, so many years before?
She danced so wildly wonderful, whirling past him, free.
She feels his gaze. He's watching, no? How dizzying, the reel!
Response rehearsed, a pass again -- the music ebbs -- too late!
Standing, chatting nonsense, she slowly seeks his face.
He certainly has vanished. The boys stand one boy less.
One must stay composed, she knows, smilingly at rest.
The fawning boy begs something -- perhaps she'd like a drink.
Thank you, yes . . . a brief recess. Wherever can he be?
In silhouette to moonlight the old barn
stands removed.
Passing all the dreaming girls, the boys cocksure with hope,
heartbeats racing through her throat, she peers beyond the door.
Inside her vision searching . . . black on gray on dark . . .
then there beyond the moonlight, she sees his arm outstretched
and glistening, his upper half . . .
He's removed his shirt!
She chuckles now, how long ago she gasped
at such a sight,
knowing how her pounding pulse belied her lowered eyes.
He turned to face her knowing whatever must be known.
In buttoning his shirt, he said something of how warm . . .
Nothing more was spoken walking by the creek.
Hand-in-hand, he saw her home. She dreamt of him in sleep.
After time they married, moving to this
farm.
She cast aside her childish whims to conquer him through charm.
He grew to love her as his wife, not something he could own.
She won her times, as he won his. And in between the barn,
etched in moonlight or in sun, reminded both of when
long ago in silence he'd gently took her hand.
He sits here many evenings, thoughtful,
shirt removed.
She sits here many evenings, safe within her world.
She recollects the early days, eyes misting at the change.
Starting out their wedded life, this barn stood silent friend.
He'd storm away in silence. She'd run with sobs suppressed.
And always safe their neutral ground stood one short run away.
She was so right. He was so wrong.
They could not live this way.
Alone and cradled in the straw she'd vow
to leave him when,
entreating through her sadness, his silent, seeking hand.
stood her answer seeking his, no utterance expressed.
knowing how they'd come to sit and be as one again.
Now older, sure, her glasses fogged, remembering
their past.
She glories in her memories . . .
and he's removed his shirt.
In Closing
By Lonna Kingsbury
If I could gift but one word
to ever guide all days
as impetus for growing
and contemplating ways
to conquer horrid demons
or gently hold a hand
to relish in the glories
of knowing dreams obtained
If I could gift but one word
to garner every proof
for each their chosen pathway
I'd gift to you . . . pursuit.
Listing of Poems
Copyright 2001Lonna Kingsbury