Tag Archives: poetry

When the Cave is Quiet

©2013 Kirby Sanders

When the cave is quiet

and all the birds have flown,

it does not mean the cave is abandoned.

Only empty for the moment.


Alone Aloft

Alone Aloft
© 2013 – Kirby Sanders

beyond the fray.

Unafraid of life
or death —
the wind blows this way,
the tide pulls that way.
A balloon untethered
wishing for a string.

It is deliciously bland
up here.
Nothing but hues of blue
and white.

The adventure is in looking down
at the brown
of decay —
nasty stains of exploitation
and the crimson blood
that so enamors humanity.

I want none of that.
I want to sing with the lightning
and dance to the music of thunder.
To be the balloon untethered
sailing for my brief moment
in the beautiful blue bland.
Knowing that when I burst
I become a part
of that beautiful big blue bland.



We Darkness

We Darkness
© 2013 – Kirby Sanders

Are we darkness?
but no.

We are but people
standing in the darkness
developing keen eyes.

Anyone can see in the sunlight —
sufficiently so to be blinded.

But the wise eyes are those
who can pick out tiny shadows
and illuminate them in their minds.
Those who can cast inner brilliance
into a bleak landscape.
Those who can shine their eyes
on a difficult path
and reveal pitfalls
impossible to see.

We darkness
are those who will lead
not when the day is
shining with cunning.
Not when the path
is even, straight and narrow.

We are the ones who will lead
when situations are dire
and twisted
and the sun might not rise tomorrow.

We are the prophets willing
to tell you what you need to hear,
not the profiteers
who tell what you want to hear.

Do not damn those who can see in the dark.
Thank them for helping
to raise the sun
and bring about better day.

Bed In A Shoe Box

©2013 Kirby Sanders.

If I could recapture
one small shred of innocence,
I would build it a beautiful bed
in a shoe box filled
with feathers, foam and scraps of silk
or velvet —
whatever treasures I could scrounge.

… Place it gently in that bed
and leave the cover off of the box.
Let it fly when ready
to grace someone else’s day.

Weep for a moment my loss
then rejoice
to know my loss
was someone else’s gain.

Quarrel With Dylan Thomas

A Quarrel With Dylan Thomas

©2012 Kirby Sanders

Do not go gentle into that good night? Do tell, please sir – why not?

I understand, sir, that you are speaking in villanelle – wherein the structure of the poem is almost of greater importance than the content, but why “rage, rage against the dying of the light”?

It seems to me that a reasonable man, after a long metaphorical and metaphysical “day” might welcome his eventual rest. As you well put it yourself, sir, “men at their end know dark is right”.

You speak of men whose “words had forked no lightning” – but what of those whose words have indeed forked lightning?  You speak of men “crying how bright 
their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay” but what of those whose deeds have indeed danced in every green bay they came across?

You speak of “Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight 
and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way” – but what of those who caught and sang and whose hands were burned and scarred in the process? Whose voices were sometimes hoarse from raucous singing?

You speak of “Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight – blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay” but what of those whose eyes were not blinded in the moments they stared into the sun itself? Who celebrated the gaiety as it occurred?

Why should such men “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”? Why should they not “go gentle into that good night” – retaining dignity in the knowledge that they have lived to the best and fullest of their abilities?

Why not, at the end of the troublesome metaphorical and metaphysical “day”, just quietly put on your pajamas and gracefully go to sleep?

Sometimes I wonder about these things.

Tears From the Sky

Tears From the Sky

© 2012 Kirby Sanders

Rain on the rooftop,

tears from the sky.

Great booming sighs

or sobs
of thunder

and emotional flashes of lightning .

Mist is heaven trying to cry,

the rain is heaven’s success.

Weep, weary sky, weep –

or perhaps it is only

Thor yawning?

I love the rain, every single drop.

Every tear is a prayer.

Near Neosho

Near Neosho
©2012 Kirby Sanders

I awoke today near Neosho.
The sun shone brightly and the wind whispered
through the high grass.
The makings of a perfect morning!

I listened intently for the call of birds
or the scurry of rodents through underbrush –
but there was none.

There was nothing but a relentless
soft breeze wafting over the prairie
and the call of a creek nearby.

I made my way to the rippling water
and drank my fill.

Took a moment to splash the  coolness over my body.

And then I sat upon the bank –
listening to nothing.

Glorious nothing.

Then I set my feet one before the other
onward in search of …