T. Byron K.


T. Byron K.
Far Eastern edge of Appalachia in Western VA http://www.studioappalachia.com http://www.projectendofdays.com
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Light & Shadow

T. Byron K.

Autumn & Cold 


roaming by




are all spun


& the Spider’s

last silks

are lost.

Departing Sunlight

(still) shines 

an old poem

amid sullen 



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  • Free Verse
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Midnight Poems

T. Byron K.

What symphony of sound do you bring on those beautiful days?

What is a reality continuously ending;

the Winter’s silence may not be heard

but the miracle of your coming to choose us

is a soft running inside the shadow’s pleasure renounced,

this conversation leaves me empty…

I’m no longer telling you anything that you



about ourselves…

Winter 1995



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Virginia/West Virginia Poems

T. Byron K.

Beyond a breaking blue

dream of





upon the 

damp ground 


as Heaven shifts/

Above the scent 

of Wild Mtn.


(slowly, slowly) 

a cold wind


distant Bells of

an April evening-

A quiet while 

ago it seemed,

this Resurrection

dream not ended;

White Cherry 

Blossoms lift into

widest blue

like late 

Appalachian snows. 


Revised 8/25/2006

“And the quietness of

colours deep in pines.”



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Faith of Heart

T. Byron K.

In the stillness of this solitudedreams clinging like rain to my blood soul

I did know a caressing of invisible hands

the presence of some monster unformed

spoke, giving me reasons to pray

and finally, invariably

allowing real freedom-

fear which brings me nothing

pallid death riding like a virgin in the dark night

all matters of wishlessness or anguish 

rush toward the stems bloom

a mindful tomb opening in the light of

this first spring.

We are the wellspring of ancient desire.

Through the mist

I see orange hell fire

the age old contempt for man is burning

I am lonely

we are alone until 

this place anoints the bleak fire

burning our soul’s gestation

Know your way to God.

Winter 1993



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  • Free Verse
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Wish List

T. Byron K.

And as I spoke your name aloud-soft, invisible wings, fluttering,

ascension in that somber air behind me.

To become the ancient characters

of the dream.

Oriental caricature of innocent pearls, white,

and apple tree leaves,

boughs the colours of sea foam at night.

That sweeter miracle-

letting it all come through me

like this.

I’ve never pleaded my heart into

a promised beating.

And visions for death reside the later morning dream-

I’m running a gauntlet never meant to be.





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T. Byron K.

Past that blue ice Wintered Sky & through my eyes-there must be your still miracled Heaven…Where we may

begin again/ Within, within that silent song now brought forth

out of one blessed ressurection/against that day the garden was lost, and

all our heart’s protection. And longer now this day dream drifts.

For Hope is Love’s intention /As the heel was bruised, the

message lost until Love’s intervention/O Tender Word of Heaven/

O promise of Forever/




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T. Byron K.

Advent-in all pure beginnings-Single poem of our every dreaming

Evocation-defend this dream-a

vision of shared Emmanuel.

O Silvery night


Astonished stars


Angels, celestial


star speak.

And in the stillness they were saying;

“Drop your time


This earth mantle

Of Eternity

For it was vision that announced

You…and days into

Hours not ended, or faith evolved into

Blood-becoming part of us.”

Spring 1997



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  • Free Verse
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Poems of The Infinite Dream-The Anointing

T. Byron K.

No recognizable or outward differences You wish to find me alone

with elevation 

skyful chance, a Winter’s dance of stars

all gesturing downward

for my road shunned a million Kings

where the mind floods in decadence

So we are swallowed like Proust’s memories

alone and without the flowers

of God’s divining 

picture show

Let us see the beginnings of things

Winter 1993



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The River Of Swans~Poem # 23

T. Byron K.

That milk white mothersome light, O curious teacher, engraver of changes/ Moon tide or “watersong”, an eternity of our soft forgiving eschews the mire, as what becomes real enables the rest-a surge of Winter stars crest our broken light and the living continue.It’s easy to think of you Neruda, at just twenty, discovering your solitude beneath a yellow canopy of that dark continent.What wet, jade shadow jungle surely witnessed this soul’s first perfection?/ In an instant flow of connection or in the loving turn of a newer poem, one vision clad measure which breathed salvation; as fireflies dazzled golden grasses, rain softly fell/ and into silences before words, two white doves split the damp air with their songs.

Winter 1996

Revised 9/23/2005

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