Home

There are many names for home.
Safety is one of them, into which we lock ourselves,
or simply the place of all slipping away.

The flowers fading on the table
don’t know they’ve been cut,
affirming only being where they belong.

At home there is always a clock
that no one has wound, compelled
to tick by the steady unwinding of hope.

I have meat ye know not of, Christ said,
meaning a kind of home. Many mansions,
brighter than time and far beyond.

So God is another name for home,
and time because everything here
is a memory, mind returning to another world.

J. Kyle Kimberlin

Creative Commons Licensed

Waiting

I have been waiting here, it seems like years.
The tides rise and fall. Old Luna, battered
and pale, barely shines for me at all.
The house is tired now and moans
to lay down its walls like limbs, like fallen
logs across a steam.

What are you waiting for? she cries.
For love, I say. For people to stay
or the courage of one oak on a hill
in tall grass, or the strength to give up.
Waiting is easier.

The house is aligned with the stars
where they’ve fallen, somewhere
in the east. Tonight, there is half a moon
to give me hope. I look up and watch,
waiting for these muses to decide.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed

“The function of the imagination is not to make strange things settled, so much as to make settled things strange.”

– G.K. Chesterton

DEEP BREATHING

I breathe Time in and breathe it out.
Draw in a day and the hours
rush out like a breeze over dandelions.
One dog after another rises
from her sleep in a blaze of light,
turns to sigh and lie back down.
So, it must be better not to take
such large gulps of Time; just a little,
like this moment of my pencil
growing dull, or the next in which
you are reading this. Inhaling just
these few poor words,
exhaling forgiveness into the stillness
of some future room, so brightly lit.   

J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed

Conversation With The Dog


I have some questions for Brookie
who knows what to do
when I go to the couch.
She runs, jumps, climbs
to my chest.
I ask about her day.

Did you have time in the yard
in the sun? And did you see
the squirrels on the wire overhead?
Did you drink your water
and chase the birds to make them
scatter to the sky?

Was there an hour for a nap,
where the sunlight falls
short and slanted to your chair?
And did you, will you, can we
play with your toys? The sun
is setting hard and fast and I
have been too much alone.


J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed

Fleeting Matters

Speeding arrow, sharp and narrow
What a lot of fleeting matters you have spurned. [1]

We arrive at the time and place
that we think is most real,
most bright and keen,
most worthy of outrage
in all the long distance
that the Earth has come.

Surely these terrors
will matter to history
and our angst will ring
through the years.

We’ve been deceived.
Vision only goes so far and all
that matters must remain.
The soul stirs behind a curtain
in conversation with the dead.
The spirit moves upon the waters
where we sleep.

J. Kyle Kimberlin

Creative Commons Licensed


[1] St Stephen, The Grateful Dead

Whitecaps

Someday I will think about you
for the last time.
It might be the last time I think
about anything, or it might be
sooner than that.
It’s hard to calculate the curve,
to plot the diminishing rate
of remembering your hair,
your hugs, the smallness
of your shoulders as you
receded into memory,
upon the obscure arc
of my remaining life.
But I know the point
is out there somewhere,
like the luminescence
of whitecaps in moonlight
on a night of dying wind.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed