Because in the lonely bed the virgin trembles, spurring the wind to wake from her sleep before the gates of heaven close, before we fade to ashes — and there is nothing that we do not know the true meaning of - Silivester Kiik (2026).
***
The time has come
the sleepy stars
on the shoulders of the old hut
invite us—go
don't turn away.
Behind—the shadow of anger
tears our footsteps
filling the air with footsteps and dust.
The time has come
the stars never acknowledge
fidelity is theirs
because the flowers
in the bride's courtyard
— realize it
don't prophesy
let us go.
For on the lonely bed
— the virgin trembles
drives the wind
awakens from her sleep
before the gates of heaven close
before we fade to ashes
— and there is nothing
that we don't truly know the meaning of.
Atambua, March 11, 2024
***
Note:
I have turned this poem into a song. However, the song is in Indonesian. You can watch it on my YouTube channel Silivester Kiik.
frosty air
calm whispers everywhere
silent stars shining like diamond bright
spurring man to dream on the birth of Jesus Christ
making children, in wait of gifts, full of delight,
cartols hummed to tell an awesome plight,
candles lit to ignite
Christmas Night.
cat on her shoulder,
flashy earrings tickling her ear
she put herself into a hypnotic trance
used remote viewing to focus on her subject
What were they thinking?
Why?
How accurate were they?
The cat purred, spurring her on.
She had always been empathetic.
This visualization took her to a whole new dimension.
The cat fell asleep, for they were both so relaxed.
All of the answers came easily after this.
Sometimes an obituary
Adds some background fact
That brings laughter, not the way
You’d think a reader would react.
Tom Shipley’s obit clarified
That he was feeling fine,
Perhaps a bit too much, when we went
One toke past the line.
A friend gave him some weed to smoke
Backstage between two sets
And warned him more than just two hits
Might cause him some regrets.
He didn’t listen, spurring him
To state the way he felt,
Yet a song was born resulting from
The hand that he was dealt.
What cracked me up, though, was to learn
Some clean-cut duo sang
That song on Lawrence Welk’s show;
Unfamiliar with the slang
Of the drug world, Welk declared
“A modern spiritual” was heard
Because within the toke line, to
“Sweet Jesus” was referred.
I wonder now if Lawrence Welk,
So strait-laced way back then,
Ever learned what he endorsed
And why folks shouted out, “Amen!”
time drifts on by
spurring memories
autumn rain
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
one hemisphere lit
of split
personality;
Jack O’Lantern rides,
spurring the midnight stallion.
Ichabod’s head spins ‘round,
fear comes forth furiously,
without time
to catch his breath.
a clean cut,
detached from reality.
eyes spinning
within Crane’s inner space;
a pumpkin smash.
was this his nemesis
or the devil himself?
was Katrina worth this,
his head laid upon
the woodpile’s lap?
a dream perhaps?
another Van Winkle written off?
furrows on forehead,
pulp pulsing, scored;
twenty years or so forth.
generations hear of the headless wanderer
only the lovelorn venture off
(and Brom Bones ascendants)
descending into dreams, delusions
or the stampede of midnight hoofs.
Katrina lit a candle in the window
She’ll never be a widow; just blind
Privileged is the right of ingress, bearing your beloved name,
To chambers of your heart, where burns a sacred flame,
Of inner sanctum divine, in sanctity of a heavenly place,
Strumming beats esoteric, vying ataraxis of ethereal grace.
Reserved for you and I, is a secret temple, tolling solace,
Where love and life embrace, in a sanctuary pure, flawless;
Where the bells echo, beckoning will of empathetic mind,
Affirming proclivity for affinity, aligned with motives kind.
When solitary thoughts linger on a grievous path of life,
When hurdles, detours of past, manifest anguish of strife,
When hurricanes and storms churn in destructive tides,
To shores of peace and tranquility, inner sanctum guides.
When life drives rudderless, perturbed in dubious plight,
Harmony of sapience and prudence transmit inner light,
Spurring verse of wisdom, as missives enlightened chime,
Defying apathy and ignorance, honoring virtues sublime.
Only you and I can soothe, troubled tears of grieved sigh,
Only you and I can fill voids, when vacuously life goes awry,
As dialogue of reason and intellect inner sanctum revives
Empowering thoughts so inspired, where sagacity thrives.
Milky bright sky with rain in her net
Morning performance with native duet
Whip cracks and choo-choos crescendo in song
Spurring near aves to jolly along
The flightless young to pipe up and squawk
Easy like eagle or hoarse as the hawk!
Where cockatoos chase each other and chatter
Raindrops descend, and pitter-patter.
Golden leaves of autumn delight
Where season flaunts hints of romance
Blazing passions of smitten sight
As themes chromatic swirl and dance.
Charming dreams of romantic eyes
Golden leaves of autumn delight
As twilight blushes on mauve skies
Lauding missives of zealous night.
While amber notions waltz in flight
Spurring thrill of flaxen meadows,
Golden leaves of autumn delight
As tunes of love heartbeats compose.
Crimson motifs gelid winds blow
Twirling, whirling, as they alight,
Where gilded canvas glints on snow
Golden leaves of autumn delight.
"writual"
a Rite
of Spring
spurring on
eventually
Autumn
I find myself
in a curious state of observation
not that such contemplation's are foreign
still
fleeting feelings
of an alien nature
engulf me.
Like shadows forged from promises past
who's bodies lay in decay within unmarked graves
least I stumble upon their headstones
spurring specters and ghost of moments
long mourned.
Yet,
I find myself in a curious state
time washing bruises and cuts emotions made
in seething nights with brutal rage
there could be no right
only lasting wrongs
held hostage to justify fear and hate.
Now I find myself in a curious state
Asking: Could this be the edge of freedom?
A fulcrum of peace in a flotsam of chaos?
What a curious state.
Modest to start with, bloating to be beast,
A spurring cat coaxing for ever more,
Ere long to rule your life, you knowing least,
What with wants and wishes known not before,
Her kittens come soon, nudge with a soft paw,
Pester you to pay heed, rub your weak knees,
And ere ye know, she’s a ravenous maw,
From spark to bushfire abetted by breeze!
Long has man mused: to be or not to be,
Oliver Twists forever wanting more,
And having had, scarce if ever happy,
No one is shown still a much deserved door,
World’s wont to dream of champagne and caviar,
When should no more than just hotdogs and beer!
______________________________________________
Sonnets | 02.11.2012 revised May 2023|
Poet’s note: Desire, what a damsel! No matter what the Greek and Roman philosophers might have said, today’s western world tends to look at desires as a welcome trait that achieves more than those from east especially Indian. This sonnet compares desires with cats with their subtle ways.
Within the heart of everyone
There lurks an evil mystery.
Undermining good intentions,
Spurring on to malefaction.
God declares, our hearts are wicked,
defiled by sin and selfishness.
Yet in our sight we are upright
With a modicum of malice.
Sinning for the sake of sinning
Not just occasional misdeeds,
But delight in sin and evil,
was Augustine’s apt conclusion.
Solzhenitsyn clearly saw it
As he lay in Russian gulag.
The line between good and evil
runs right through every human heart.
Even gangster Mickey Cohen
thought he was a decent fellow.
With no need for transformation,
Or God’s gift of soul salvation.
Deny not the evil within
Treat it as a venomous beast.
Plead like Paul for God to free you,
Give you grace, to eschew evil.
Am no longer hollow
Look through my mind, silently listen to my thoughts
Do they still whisper pessimism?
Knock at my grit, does it resound with resilience
Do you feel ambers of penultimate ambience?
If you see shallow graves of past mob injustices
Furrows of harrowing experience and unpleasant apprentice
Let it ring that am collected and mended, primed for what lies ahead
Am fast filling up eroded self and taming every drop
Just to ensure I don’t run dry and thirst after turning a blind eye
I’m not cracking down and shrinking lifelessly,
Neither am I experiencing the former, sticking to the shell of bygones
Am on heels to the latter, in hot pursuit of the future envisioned
As I chase the status quo, I know I’ve odds to defy, emblazons to relive
Shun history, maybe rewrite it, and totally purge tinted self
Bruised and mired, just panting and longing for cistern site
For all my life I’ve tasted no cosset, storms being my chum
Every day launching fresh brand of gull
And my feeble feet journeys on regardless
As joints grumble at every inch made
Every mileage made spurring fresh emotions
To just keep going
Keep going!
Sensing and yearning allure of daydreams
My musings amble in meadows of themes,
Sometimes wowing ebullience of dawning,
Sometimes luxuriating in moonlit evening
Gazing lambent skies of stellar twinkling,
Inviting me to echo my inner most feelings;
Of whispers romantic when love is courting,
Of giggling streams and blossoming springs,
Of resplendent autumn’s falling gilded leaves,
Of fate unkind, bawling, in throes of grief,
Of pristine joy beaming from mother’s eyes
Jubilant in delight of child’s innocent smile;
Of ebb and flow to life in seasons undulating
Spurring me to attribute form and meaning.
So, I write verses stemming from core of soul
Striving to capture essence of elusive words,
Exploring assonance, even in rhymeless prose,
Attempting to inspire spirit of wordless woes
As thoughts-poetic heart’s rhythms compose;
Of chromatic sunsets and scintillating dawns,
Of starless nights hosting tenebrous bygones,
Of tales strumming romance, of fables forlorn,
Of ideas enthroned, of paradigms bemoaned,
Of boundless expressions, of passions I own.
August 30, 2022
Placed 2nd: I Write Because Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
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