Steven Kirk




                  Early Morning

            When they come to me
            In the small hours
            These liquid words
            Flowing in mellow streams
            I rush pen to paper
            Capturing every word
            So that inspiration does not die

            Misty dreams turned over in the night
            Fleeting promise, creativity
            Easily lost unless hastily scribed
            Emotions lain down by the soul
            Exposed for all to read
            Though some find no value

            Words are children
            Born through adversity
            Cherished for the joy created
            In the pain of birthing
            And the lasting solace
            That I have created
            What no other could





A Quiet Morning

At end of day
In late evening
When hurry and worry fall away
A cool breeze washes through the trees
The sun falls on strife
Peace rules

In this quiet moment
When the world is still
Joy embraces
Grace illuminates
Sadness departs
In hope for tomorrow
Created by gentle silence
Which shelters
A troubled heart

In this quiet moment
Dreams are born
To lift the spirit
Armoring the soul
Against hatred
Against cynicism
Which seeks to destroy
Life’s beauty
Love’s promise

In this quiet moment
All is right
God reaches out his hand




She Hides

She hides her beauty
So that I may not see
Eyes, green, liquid
Deep wells
Skin, fresh, delicate,

Angels in envy commit sin

Soft brown hair
Tucked behind one ear
Flows down her back,
Vibrant, luxurious
A smile lights her face
Staggering me
With innocence

Standing in the doorway
She hides her beauty
So that I may not see




      The Tears of Women

God counts the tears of women
Though men do not hear
Or know their value

God counts the tears of women
In answer to the callous
Who destroy without thought
Gentle hearts

God counts the tears of women
Coin of despair
Currency of redemption
For the soul of man

God counts the tears of woman
From birth
Through life
For death

God counts the tears of women
As her own



 Wake me

Wake me
In some other life
Where joy is common language
Happiness, conversation
A reality of gentle demands
Tender ultimatums
A quiet place in which hope lives
Tomorrow’s painless promise

Some other life
Allowing laughter undisguised
Floating on the wind like distant bells
Pleasant land of timid tyranny
Governed by the meek
Whose only law, understanding
Tolerance, the only absolute

A universe of new beginnings
In which I would have but one desire
That someone
Wake me




The Flying Dream

He came and sat beside me
Hollow eyes, unkempt hair
His hands shook lighting his cigarette
The smoke curled upwards
A rising cloud passing before his face
He took a deep drag
Coughing instead of exhaling
The ritual of tobacco satisfied
He looked at me

“You know, I don’t dream anymore
When I was a kid I dreamed all the time
Sometimes so real they’d wake me up
Sometimes couldn’t tell if I was sleeping or not
But you know the one I remember best
The flying dream
You know, when you’re soaring way above the world
Blue sky, soft clouds
No care, no worry
Just the silence of the wind roaring in your ears
Nothing can touch you
No one tearing you apart piece by piece”

He took a last drag from his cigarette
Threw it to the ground smashing the butt with his shoe

For a moment we sat in silence
“Haven’t had that dream in twenty years
Strange that it comes to me, so clear
When I’ve forgotten what it meant”

He stood
Lit another cigarette
And stumbled away





On a Clear Fall Night

I heard the geese last night
And looked up to find the stars
The geese hid in the darkness
Only their voices floated down
But the stars revealed themselves
In brilliance
And lit the cold night with cool fire

The geese cried the changing season
The stars whispered, infinity
The flock flew on into the night
Their voices slowly faded
But the stars
The stars remained

I heard the geese last night

And looked up to find the stars