Poems of The Infinite Dream-The Anointing

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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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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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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