Kingfishers

Posted on January 17, 2015 by Kyle Kimberlin

The musical geese cross
between the faltering wetlands
of the San Joaquin and look
down on us. They could answer
my questions but I’m already
gone, in my bed by the sea.
The fine car is too fast
for the wisdom of birds.

You talk about suffering
and I think about silence.
It makes my heart do funny
things. I see that we are animals
born in Heaven’s dark imagination
but I still don’t understand.
Pain might be the greatest
of God’s mysteries.

Where are we going?
What am I supposed to do?
And will we dive like kingfishers
into eternity?

J. Kyle Kimberlin
January 16, 2015

Creative Commons Licensed

Amends

Posted on November 22, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

If I have hurt you, but I know
I have hurt you and left your love
wasting like a dove stunned
on a wire, through countless days
of incredible sun, forgive the sun.

I have wandered off again,
looking for the perfect way
to make amends. I can’t imagine
finding it, before you fly away
and leave the wire trembling.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
11-22-2014

Creative Commons Licensed

Nightland

Posted on October 19, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

We lived for years and everything
was easy. Our fingers understood
thorns, so we could touch each
other’s hair and roses had a scent
that the mind wasn’t forced to imagine.
Clouds appeared and passed slowly,
so we only had to look up.
In life — Dear God — there were oranges,
rivers, violins, and hours just
waiting for the bread to rise.

In the Nightland, years go by
as we struggle just to remember
those gifts. There is no fruit
no sense of taste, no gentle breeze
to bring the clouds toward us
from the sea. We spend a century
imagining brown hair tucked
behind a girl’s ear, then go on thinking
of papers tacked to a crumbling wall.
Because now we are merely dreams
that never end, forever fading,
slowly forgetting the living world.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
Download in PDF
Creative Commons Licensed

I took the photo above about 30 years ago, in the back yard of my grandparents’ home in Delano, California. As I was editing the poem I began to think about the photo, which I hadn’t seen in years, and about trying to find it in the old albums. All photos start out as images of places, things, or people. But over time, some become images of memories.

The photo has been cropped above. See the original here.

Tiny Kites

Posted on October 5, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

These are my words.
See how each lines up
behind another and they wait
like tiny kites to be lifted
by the wind. I think
maybe they are nervous,
shocked by the fall to earth.
So they lie among shards
of paperbark in the long grass,
strangely happy, just glad
to see that I am near.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
4th Draft, 10.05.2014
Creative Commons Licensed

Wish for Rain

Posted on September 17, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

I wish it would rain
every morning
while we have coffee.

There the dog waits
in cool shadow, there
the fountains rise and fall.

Heavy gray drops
the size of grapes.

Pray for blue skies
each afternoon
with the birds singing,

eating seeds as the rain
moves away. And a following
wind on the sea.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
September 17, 2014

Creative Commons Licensed

I see that we are

Posted on September 15, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

a new poem

Nothing and More

Now I see, we are flesh and reason,
bone and fear.
I see that we are wind and feather,
stone and love,
and dust on the tired furniture.

Now I hear that we are symphony and snarl,
the buzz of bees
and the growl of the highway.
I hear that we are
mockingbird and newborn scream.

Now I know, we are blade at the throat
and a bed
of blue flowers. We are hawk’s flight
and mass grave,
starlight and gunfire.

We are nothing and more
than we have ever believed.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
September 15, 2014

Creative Commons Licensed

Voices

Posted on August 28, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

Around this old wooden house,
branches moved by wind
and rain sound like voices.
There is as much absence
as presence in the sound,
as much pain as peace.
It is the unsteady rhythm
of solitude.

I don’t want to be alone.
Never truly alone in this world.
Before you leave, just tell me
who will care in thirty
years or forty to lift my chin
and tell me look — a bird.

Tonight, the wind is up,
the small dog barks and whines.
The old house is nervous
and whispering. We recognize
the dead, the call to supper
and the fervent prayer. We are
summoned but remain in bed
waiting for the breeze to die.

Kyle Kimberlin
August 28, 2014

Creative Commons Licensed

Notes

This quote arrived in my e-mail recently and served to inspire:

For many years, I thought a poem was a whisper overheard, not an aria heard.

– Rita Dove, poet

In the second stanza, there’s a clue which proves that part was deposited in my notebook several years ago. Can you guess what that clue is?

The Setting Sun

Posted on July 28, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

The passing of a life from everything
to something, to nothing we can see
or understand, is a work of art
that each of us paints, carves, writes, sings.

If we could run out onto the waves
west into the setting sun, beyond
the islands and the edge of space,
maybe the day would live on.

Still I sit here, where I have been quiet
for years, and I wait for you to pass.
It has always been you that I wait for.
Will you see me in the corner of your eye?

I hope you will remember I was here
when I am forgotten and you are gone.

Kyle Kimberlin
July 28, 2014

Creative Commons Licensed

Half Past Eternity

Posted on May 22, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy;
they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”
― Marcel Proust

I tell you I am aging relentlessly, thrown
open to the ocean air like a sash window
framed by peeling paint. That’s how it is.
But I have been held close, held up
into sunlight and moon wind, into branches
of old trees, held so tenderly and helped
to lean out over water rushing into death.

You and I are still alive. Don’t be afraid.

You know that life is hiding from us, though
we caught a glimpse this morning, where
it fell as a shaft of light across the floor.
It rose and flew like a moth down the long
hall and disappeared. As a child I saw
life fly in through the window while
morning arrived and my grandmother
was singing in another room. It fluttered
by and rested for a while on my hand.

The house is gone but not that room, not yet.

This candle’s tiny flame is all we know of fire,
no less than a sun, and all of time
is moving in this single clock. I wind it
twice a week and see behind the glass the marks
where Papa’s fingers brushed its face.
We do not die, his garden goes on forever.
So we can see him planting tomatoes
in a day of late spring resurrected,
swaying in green and yellow light.
A breeze parts Grandma’s linens drying on the line.

That day will live as long as we need it to.

From a distance he appears soft and kind
and now he is visible only at the focal length
of years. Seated on the sofa in an umber light
he sets his watch. Half past eternity. He looks
up at us as if to speak, but so much silence falls
between. Did he remember, as the evening
softened and grew dim, the cry of the dogs
through the tangled woods?

They always knew the dark road home.

Half Past Eternity by J. Kyle Kimberlin is licensed
under a Creative Commons Attribution-
NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Watermelon Memory

Posted on May 18, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

Watermelons are in the stores again. I saw some today, large rafts of watermelons looking confidently variegated. They know they’re all about the mystery. Schroedinger’s fruit, both sweet and not, ripe and not, until opened. I could smell peaches too but I was after other things — yogurt, bread, soup — so the watermelons and peaches had to wait.

So what’s the point? Just that I like the word watermelon. Also rainbow, piano, and river. Peace is a good word, but arguably subjective, inconclusive. Watermelon is a faithful, unambiguous, and explicit word. It means what it is and it sits in the mouth just long enough to make its point.

Watermelon is a memory word for me, like fireworks or campout, thought not laden as Christmas. When I remember watermelon, I think of a poem I read in the 1970s, called Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle. Which I’ve never had, I think; only fresh for me, thanks.

During that summer–
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was–
Watermelons ruled.

And here’s my take on the topic of watermelon memory, a repost from a few years back. I like this poem. The person addressed is not my child, by the way; I have none. This is a personal poem, nonetheless.

Watermelon

Child, if you care to remember
this world, this life
you dream like a path
of certain distance quickly
walked and centered on a hill,
if you care to open it like
watermelon in summer
or like a prayer box
bearing a constellation of crosses
and sunsets, I hope
you consider your father,
his overtures to death,
his music, and like sunlight
through the sprinkler
on a simple greening lawn,
his smile.

This post from a few years ago seems complimentary.

Watermelon by Kyle Kimberlin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

Last Words

Posted on May 4, 2014 by Kyle Kimberlin

Do you ever think of the art of leaving the world with a good one-liner? It is an art form, you know, though perhaps generally inadvertent. For instance, James Brown said, “I’m going away tonight.” Lewis Carroll said, “Take away those pillows, I shall need them no more.” Lou Costello said, “That was the best ice cream soda I ever tasted.” And Thoreau said, “Moose … Indian.”

Don’t misunderstand: I’m not expecting to need a good one any time soon. I was just thinking about it, and thought I’d have a bit of fun. so I’ve been making a list of little phrases that might serve on on the way out. Most are original, while some are based on the profundity of great thinkers from Oscar Wilde to Charlie Brown.

Let me know what you think. … Oh, and here’s a poem too.

I hid the gold behind the …
Well, I sure didn’t see this coming.
Aw, who cut the cheese?
Keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times.
And now for a word from our sponsor.
Excuse me a moment.
Somebody wind the clock.
I smell pancakes.
Time to piss on the fire and call the dogs.
Good grief.
Don’t tell me, let me guess.
Is there any more pie?
Stand back, let me handle this.
Either this wallpaper goes, or I do.
Now was all that really necessary?
I make a motion to adjourn.
Has anybody seen my hat?
Well, that’s how they get ya.
Tomorrow will be beautiful.
Get the gate.
Did you say wheat?
Stop at the next gas station, I need to pee.
And finally …
Don’t laugh, you’re next.

The Last Word

So this is what it’s like
to be alive. It is all
so difficult; the air and light
resist me. Even the music
makes me cry or laugh.
I expected we would have wings
and make love behind waterfalls.
I thought there would be
more owls
and elephants fearlessly singing.
I thought I could make you believe
in water running through rocks
between the trees.
You would bend down to drink
and find me living there
with the last word of the first poem
that would ever make you weep.
Then you would love me. Then
you would return my calls.
But here we are, living
on our oily streets
and the malignant traffic running
between us, helicopters
pounding down the sky.
The elephants are wise
and careful and very shy.
So I am leaving messages
for you: the last word
of every poem I write.