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Kyle Costa Poem
The harbor gave a dim illumination,
lampposts vaguely penetrating the dark water.
As waves like shades of wine drowned the jagged shore of stone,
I watched a fibrous complexion of steel shimmer from the water's edge.
Ships sleep, rocking gently on a resting sea,
machines of quiet obedience.
The moon, outlining the clouds above with an electric hue,
watched over the winds as they circulated the vacant wharf like ghosts.
The smell of an approaching storm;
the sharp, distinctive fragrance of ozone as it sailed the satin brine.
The sound of distortion upon the ocean's surface;
precipitation submerged beneath its aquatic magnetism.
I closed my eyes as raindrops kissed my moonlit skin,
tracing the alloy carbon framework of cargo ships and yachts.
Falling down my cheekbones like an aggregation of tears,
the harbor became lost in a nostalgic cloudburst.
Copyright © Kyle Costa | Year Posted 2014
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Kyle Costa Poem
Father once told me
darkness is absence of light;
spaces void of sight.
Fall is marching near,
stealing the identity
of the oak and pine.
The leaves surrender,
responding to gravity;
strewn like scattered chords -
Individually,
specks of changing emotion
watching from below.
The tremulous night,
suspended in a moon beam;
unshielded, alone.
Hues of green dispel,
replaced with burning orange
and delicate brown.
Aromatically,
summer invokes departure,
fixed in memory.
Copyright © Kyle Costa | Year Posted 2014
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Kyle Costa Poem
They used to call us moon watchers,
our eyes of guardian drones
gazing the random access points
of a diverting canvas of sleeping dreams.
My father’s old telescope shows me your surface,
your craters in which your skeletons may hide,
or where your cold rocks lay
without motion.
You must feel alone,
the uninhabited space much vacant,
the stars much too distant
to communicate.
Oh, but fragile moon, take heed of this:
we shall remain as your shadows,
animations of the hills that connect the valley’s still.
Sincerely, we, the moon watchers.
Copyright © Kyle Costa | Year Posted 2014
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Kyle Costa Poem
It’s Tuesday again.
It always rains on Tuesday.
I can’t beat time to the stairwell before it snatches my arm and pulls me back to sleep, a sleep that only haunts me, you know. When I don’t rest, I hold an old lantern up to a dirty mirror, to see my reflection with a rustic taste. I always cherished rustic things; they reminded me of autumn’s disposition. But when autumn comes, I feel sad. I bite the darkness, and cast my emotions to the night – like shadows.
If I yell loud enough, someone will hear me, someone with a gentle voice. Autumn – curse thee! I stab another page, to see if it will weep or if the splattering ink WILL FORM a constellation. Maybe I should write more – or maybe I shouldn’t – maybe I should remain still. An eye is visionless to an empty world.
I study karma with a kaleidoscope, friction with human agency. I was always shrewd with syntax. But too quick with words that when I fumbled my weapon, I’d either shoot my eyes out, or leave a disparate hole in the ceiling – perhaps one to crawl through and join the stars in quiet discussion.
My negative adjectives get mistaken for pessimism; nobody knows that I smile when the sun dies. Sometimes I laugh at its diligence – feral audacity, as its fleeing orange fingers release the horizon. Maybe I think about death too much - or not enough, for it made the greatest poetry. Sometimes my thoughts are unsafe.
Convincing myself I’m real is always the most difficult part: skeleton, muscle tissue; I pinch my skin when I forget. But I don’t forget as much as I used to. I wish I could remember in dreams - maybe they wouldn’t be so scary.
Copyright © Kyle Costa | Year Posted 2014
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Kyle Costa Poem
An old hammock
sways in a safe place;
appearances of familiar geometry,
echoes of crashing tidal motion.
This place was always
home to us - this place to
seek shelter, seek disguise, covet oblivion;
posit persuasions in waves
of ocean,
perhaps to cradle a foreign ear,
or disturb the lonely torpid night.
Copyright © Kyle Costa | Year Posted 2014
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Kyle Costa Poem
I can’t help but hide from this envious moon,
clinging to the sky like ivory on oak.
Intertwined fibers of its circumference gleaming,
outside, nostalgic avenues form rivers, streaming.
I can’t help but stare at these silent walls,
repelling cold air with magnetic aversion.
Headlights shine lambent, photonic, reflecting;
inside, dark paint glitters, diverting, infecting.
As the immoderate stars watch over us, burnished,
the fear of hereafter is compelling, yet mystic.
I watch from my chamber, I listen, I wait;
a schema, cognition, they must procreate.
Why do I hide from an obscure world?
Outlining boundaries, fearful, despondent.
Expressions vague, a world aside,
these factions of cryptic doth not subside.
Why be afraid of a future forthcoming?
For thou shall come quiet, vibrant, becoming.
Copyright © Kyle Costa | Year Posted 2014
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