Poetry by Kurtis Ebeling
Published in Literary Magazines &/or Self-Published
Dialogue Between a Silhouette and a Voice
(Published March 31, 2020 on Facebook)
Silhouette. I was a silhouette, as a child,
A shadow against untouched white canvas:
Instinctively seeing myself as other.
Bearing worlds of light from the start,
Before I realized few things are ageless
In a world of deathless, unvarying, color.
Voice. I thought I was a voice, as a child,
A sound dashing through imagined canyons:
A glimpse of truth behind organized fiction.
Always fleeting and always timid,
I was life before form, a patient phantom;
I was senseless sound, and agreed upon diction.
Silhouette. Still, I often exist as a shadow,
Timid and ineffectual, leaving no mark.
My mind would mistake memory for vision,
Personifying life as a figure I’d follow:
Life being the fire, and I its smoke
(Forgetting to notice my footsteps had rhythm).
Voice. Always aflutter, a ripple through wind:
Only a noise until heard as meaning.
I have spent much of my life devoid of form,
Thinking myself a ghostly intruder,
(Distant from life’s dust) my mind deceiving,
I thought then matter, as a coat, was worn.
Silhouette. We are the sum of all the light we’ve seen,
Equally dull and vivd, both bride and suitor.
Voice. We’ve never been just one thing:
Happy and livid, student and tutor.
Silhouette. Everything from head to foot,
And heart between.
Voice. We are the wind and light
in our hollow beings.
The Past Receding
(Published April 3, 2020 on Facebook)
I am a past in the present
—a past unforgiving—
made of distant descendants
learned in deceiving.
There is light setting,
But elsewhere rising.
There is time receding
And time advancing.
We float through and from being,
—into memory, into experience—
And matter, with seeing.
What’s light save appearance?
There is seeming in speaking:
in reaching for meaning.
These words are containing
All that defines their being.
Death doesn’t die.
Self isn’t single.
Truth telling and lying
in all words mingle.
Speaking is believing,
meaning is breathing,
that renders all walking
walking while dreaming.
We are the past receding
in a present advancing.
Coupled Love Poems
An Honest Lie (I)
All it takes is an honest lie.
Love be not deaf nor blind,
Nor care much for truth;
Into vision, and into mind,
With the memory of youth,
An image upon another’s eye.
It takes just an honest lie
For the world to close in,
In a world drifting apart.
Under a blanket, often thin,
A world lost within the heart
Is made of the air: its own sky.
A garden spider is love,
Marching silently across
Leafy and silken threads.
Filament in love tossed
reach, and wind-threshed,
Siting upon air, rests above.
Their is more in one’s eyes
Of setting than of identity:
Nearly as certain as we die
Do we live dependently.
Love is another honest lie;
We trust love as we do sight.
An Image (II)
Smiling eyes of a deeper blue
remain uneasily above
an unmoved expression
carved into soft marble;
Walking with Eurydice’s
As sweet a sight as a tree
were her eyes whirling
Then briefly glancing;
A simple glare of light
An image always renewed,
A fragment and dream,
Moves without direction
In landscapes advancing;
Walking with Eurydice’s
Yet there is nothing to see,
looking upon love.
Neither the sun of morning
Nor a beauty that startles;
Less than a glare of light
II. Published in Lit-Magazines & at Online Publications
published at eris&eros
Not the trees compressing or stretching their spines
nor threshed leaves scratching concrete walkways,
nor a black, spring sky softly tapping flowing dirt
(Under blankets of shadow, irises turn inward
toward an intricate place still
moving, subtly, between a shifting sky
and an earthy stem, with anchored nerves),
but a singer unconcerned with meaning.
Limbs are stretching in the dark, leaves are cast.
Twigs and needles are loosed from rooftop moss,
fall clumsily through fighting space, then float
in earth flowing, in thick rivers, downstream:
flurries and eddies frictionless in motion.
The mind reaches, but the roots remain.
Sleepwalking in Bright Daylight
published at Transcend Literary Magazine (transcendlit.com)
Running wildly through my mind,
hares trampling grass and squirrels leaping
from thin limb to limb,
would fade and slip with age
then cower, nervously in hiding,
at experience’s stalking eyes.
Sleep would create beautiful light
and wakefulness admire softer night
yet together they’d swing,
like quiet Winter and vibrant Spring or
wind that’d rise to fall in morning’s heat.
Wandering about a flourishing moor
every step leaves a mark, like memory,
but harsh concrete reality renders life
amnesic, cold like snow unbending.
Where dirt has potential for change,
concrete only cracks
under perennial foot-traffic
to be repaired and returned
to its original state.
But a faithful love, a shadow
under the noon sun, returns momentarily
before taking its leave.
Lulled to sleep by weariness
and brought back to sight by necessity
light remains light and shadow shadow
eyes open or closed.
The vanity of consciousness
fades into silence
when falling into that water,
crowded by bending daffodils,
to lie in those shadows
and sink under their weight,
reach the bottom, then surface.
Light and Sound in D Minor
Published at Tempered Runes Press, in their first edition of Galdrar
Sound, like light, dances as circus performers,
in colorful trances, when pushed into corners,
and moves all around an indefinite room
whose length is time and will become a tomb,
held at a distance by the mind’s attention
to a fleeting instance of quiet suspension—
between now and the next struck piano string
that sings without words, but contains blurred meaning.
The room, suddenly, is emptied except for the echoes
of strings sustaining sweetly, and softening flicking yellows;
it expands to the size of a canyon under rustling meadows,
and makes silence a companion, which gives time its billows.
Time is an unevenly expanding balloon,
a piano string waiting to bloom,
that pops with the swing of an arching hammer—
the room recedes; the dancers stammer.